


The Jester's Throne

by AcrylicMist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Animal Abuse, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Character Death, Cults, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Freeform, Gen, Godstuck, High Octane Angst, Human Sacrifice, Humanstuck, M/M, Magic, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Religion, Royaltystuck, Subjugglators, classpecting madness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-02-10 22:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12921195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcrylicMist/pseuds/AcrylicMist
Summary: Gamzee Makara is set to ascend the throne of Prospit as the god of the Mirthful Church and all it's holdings. As the head of legions of subjugglators and heir to a legacy of holy rage, can Gamzee grow into his role as a young god after the appearance of an impossible miracle makes him question everything he's ever known?What can go wrong when a clowncult leads a country??? EVERYTHING!





	1. Lover of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> The Jester’s Throne
> 
> A TrypticCognizen (TC) Homestuck novel featuring Karkat<> Gamzee 
> 
> Yeah this is my ode to pale Gamkar, a huge and richly confusing cult AU fic where nothing makes sense. Wow I'm in the final editing stages of something great but I'm so excited that I had to post something even if I'm not ready for TCAC yet so have this. It's been sitting in my files for two years now so I've dressed it in new clothes and made it into something else. Here we go...
> 
>  

Stretch out my life  
And pick the seams out  
Take what you like  
But close my ears and eyes  
Watch me stumble over and over

Chapter One:

The trumpets were blaring loudly, announcing to the city that their Prince was approaching.

High-stepping horses snorted as they carried a raised platform behind them, and the Prince wondered briefly whether their eyes showed white from the excitement of the festival or in fear from the scent of him.  
The entourage that walked the main street around the young Makara roared and whipped themselves into a frenzy of movement and noise. The drums were clashing and the high whinny of one of the stallions rose over the cacophony of sound and color.

Gamzee was drunk off of nothing but the high of the parade, mingling the wine and the blood together in his mouth until they tasted the same. Shit, he loved the Bloodmoon festival. Somewhere there were bells chiming in a discordant chorus, clashing metallic and brazen through the twisted city streets as Faygo rained down.

A small boy caught his eye from the crowded sidewalk. The thin child wore eyes wider than his shoulders and stood barefoot, awestruck as the Dark Carnival’s highest faithful moved past him. Subjugglators, their faces painted into terrible masks of white and red, clashed shields and swords together in support of their ruler.

“Make way for the Prince! Make way for Makara Gamzee!” A royal crier yelled, his voice deep and wild.

The word sent a thrill through him, and claws dug into the wooden arms of the throne as a familiar rage peeped its head up in his veins. The music was in his blood, throbbing and pulsing. His head was filled with fog. 

Gamzee sat there, drinking in the sights of the city streets before him. His sharp-horned profile cut a long shadow across the crowd while somewhere hounds bayed for blood. Colored streamers filled the air as the harvest festival drew in thousands from the surrounding lands, every thin-boned farmer’s son and moldering fishwife vying for a glimpse of their elusive Prince.

Each year he traveled this road as it twisted through Prospit, turning the great circle until it ended back at the castle, a drawn out path of blood and bodies behind them as unlucky civilians fell under the hooves of the horses or drew a subjugglator’s eye. 

Someone screamed as a spear took him through the chest as the madness began to reach it’s fevered peak. Dancers paced alongside the prince, arms bleeding as they thrashed and writhed, their skin gray with ash and dust and their eyes wide and rolling.

“May this blood bring a good harvest!” Korzen nudged Gamzee with his elbow, the high priest’s face painted red and white. “Are you sure you don’t want to join in on the games?”

Yes, his blood whispered. Let him rip and tear and bleed them all dry. The caustic thought pierced through the numbness and the Makara blinked away the fog and the sweetness of the wine on his tongue. Gamze shook away his rage and nodded to his teacher.

“I’m chill with it,” he said, his stomach already uneasy with all of the blood he’d seen spilled. He hid his reluctance under apathy and boredom and prayed it would be enough to turn the priest’s interest away.

Korzen nodded with a tight smile as he covered up his disappointment, “I’ll see you at the Moonhigh Rites, then,” he said, chuckling. “That is, if any of the sacrifices survived the parade.”

Gamzee forced a knowing smirk. “Blood in, and may it pour.”

“May it pour,” the priest agreed. He vanished into the crowd of dancers as the intensity of the parade crashed higher and higher. The castle loomed overhead on the hill as the road began to climb the cobblestones back to the starting point. The ranks of subjugglators that flanked the prince walked with straight spines and bared chests, weapons at the ready. The Makara occupied himself with more wine, seeking to chase away the blackness that seeped in his vision and made his claws ache to cut into soft skin. His rage was up and it wanted violence, baited by the madness around him that he couldn’t force himself to take part in.

Makara though he may be, Gamzee was no killer.

The parade continued and with each passing step it became harder and harder to ignore the tremble in his veins, the shudder of longing that mixed with his inborn unease at the violence around him. The arms of his chair were scored with deep lines from his tense claws.

Gamzee felt a tug. A pull, some obscure but unbreakable urge to glance over at a certain ally way as the royal platform passed it by. He looked, but nothing was back there but some crates and old barrels behind the many heads of the crowd. Something about it still held his gaze firmly, and his heart fluttered as a figure stepped out of the shadows.

He could distinguish nothing about them beyond the long hooded cloak they wore, not even the gleam of eyes, but it didn’t matter. He knew them, whoever they were. Somehow. The knowledge screamed loud inside him like claws across glass as the sight struck a familiar chord. Who were they?

But the horses had pulled on and Gamzee lost sight of the person for a single moment as the world tilted on its axis. 

“Wait!” he ordered, throwing out an arm. The driver pulled the horses to a stop at once, and several subjugglators mulled around in momentary confusion at the sudden stop. He spotted a different high priest in the throng of worshippers, yelling for order.

“What is it, your Prince?” Several other priests were there as well as the crowd surged closer. A horse reared and hooves flashed in the air.

“There was a person in that alley.” He pointed to it, the blood in his veins thrumming. “In a long cloak. Bring them to me.”

They didn’t question it. Several subjagglators rushed off and stormed the alley immediately, eager to please and cause some chaos in the process. Gamzee spotted a high priest looking smug and bloodthirsty. Maybe they thought he’d decided to have a little fun for once, share in on the festival games. The thought worried the prince; he didn’t want them hurting whoever it was. His heart gave an odd squeeze at the thought.

It didn’t matter. After a minute or two of waiting and trying to hide his sudden uncertainty, the subjagglators returned empty-handed.

“There was no sign of anyone back there, my Prince.” The offending subjugglator knelt before him piously, pressing his face against the hard floor by his feet.

Disappointment filled him, and Gamzee drew back his lips. Fangs glinted in the sunlight.

“It’s no matter, Gamzee.” Korzen, the head high priest of the Thirteen, comforted him. The subjugglator still knelt by his boots, awaiting punishment for having failed a direct order. Korzen nudged the prostrate soldier with his foot. “If you want games, this one will do just fine.”

The entire parade had come to a halt. Now that he’d stopped moving he could see the populace better. They shied away from the subjugglators and the priests, but pressed forward eagerly for a glimpse of him.  
Gamzee held back a hiss of frustration. They didn’t get it.

“No,” he said, leaning down and pulling the pilgrim to his feet. His eyes widened in fear when he met Gamzee’s painted face. “Go back to your place.” The prince said gently as he turned the subjugglator loose. The man staggered away. “Move on!” he commanded, and with a jolt the platform jerked forward again. He sank back into his throne as the music started up again.

“What was that about, Gamzee?” Korzen asked, slouching against the railing and running a finger down the spiked mace he carried, as equally disappointed as his charge was by the turn of events. The large man was one of the only ones who could get away with calling Gamzee by his name, but he didn’t mind it. The endless titles of rank tired the prince. 

“It was nothing,” he lied instinctively, and the priest shrugged and turned away. Gamzee’s heart began to feel like it wasn’t trying to throw itself up the back of his throat. He could feel his pulse in his ears.  
“If you say so,” Korzen said knowingly, and the priest jumped lightly down from the platform. He entered the throng around the again, giving in to the madness of the festival.

Gamzee was disquieted as the horses moved on. He’d never lied to a priest before, let alone to Korzen, but some deep instinct told him to keep silent. He lingered over his memory of the figure, trying to glean details but coming up blank. A hole in his chest sucked at the fleeting glimpse and made his breath catch. Who had stood motionless and cloaked in that alley, their eyes hidden but seared nonetheless into Gamzee’s mind like a brand?

He could still feel it in his chest, a pang of recognition that refused to fade as the parade reached the end of its route.

…

The festival ended with blood, copious amounts of the stuff. It had been splattered all over him, and he was faintly sick to the stomach for it.

For a Makara, blood didn’t please him any.

He tried to hide it, but he knew that the high priests could see right through him when he shied away from the blood and the screams. Maybe if his mind wasn’t so preoccupied with the stranger in the alley he would have performed outstandingly during the festival and eased the countenance of several high priests. Or that was his excuse. Some of the priests suspected that their Makara lacked the bloodthirst that came natural to a prince. He feared that they were right.

Gamzee hunched his shoulders up with unease. His heart was pounding loudly as he excused himself from the rest of the festival’s activities after his presence at the rites was fulfilled. Korzen clearly didn’t like it, watching with hooded eyes from over the bloodied alter, but his teacher kept silent as he made his escape from the temple.

He locked himself in his chambers after growling at his guards to fuck off and leave him be. He wanted to break something.

Gamzee had to know who he’d seen. All night a suspicion had been forming in his heart, gnawing like a worm to his rotten core. There was no other explanation for it. Gamzee knew about moirails from his studies, but never had the priests mentioned a Makara having one. 

Was such a thing possible for him? Could a prince even have a twin soul? Could he have a secret moirail somewhere out there in the city? The Makara had to know, just to end this hyper buzz of energy building in his limbs before he went mad with not knowing. 

Gamzee had snuck around the palace grounds unseen many times before, but he’d never left the castle walls to wander the city unsupervised.

Common sense told him that he could not be recognized outside the palace or word would get back to Korzen. The high priest would probable be happy that his prince was actively exploring his city, but if Korzen knew there’d be questions that Gamzee wasn’t going to answer, like how high his body count had gotten. Korzen would probably try and assign him a royal guard as well. A disguise was in order.

He copied the stranger and threw on a long cloak. It had embroidered edges but would be suitable. The hardest thing to hide was his horns. Jet black, they arched up high off his skull like a lyre, just beginning to develop that characteristic twist to them. A hood wouldn’t hide them.

He’d just have to keep out of sight. Claws and teeth could be hidden, but his horns were impossible to disguise. 

Gamzee checked himself in the mirror before he left. The baggy cloak covered his lanky body, but his head was still exposed. Wild black hair obscured the base of his horns and framed his thin and angular face. The white and gray face paint would have been a dead giveaway even without the horns, but he left the paint untouched. That part wasn’t going anywhere.

It was easy for him to avoid the guards. Even when it was discovered that he’d gone missing in the past and the priests sent man hunts after their prince in the spirit of training, he’d always been one step ahead. It was one of the few things the priests were happy he excelled in.

Sneaking around the grounds was easy. Getting over the outer wall was another matter. The impressive span of solid stone was interspaced with watchtowers every 40 feet. It wasn’t going to be easy. Even with claws the stone was unclimbable. 

So he went over the roof of a stable with quiet steps and crept up the ladder to a watchtower when the watchman’s back was turned. It only took him a breathless moment to cross the wall and jump. It was a good ways down onto hard packed dirt, but he rolled with the landing and came up easily. Perk of being the Makara; normal human rules didn’t quite apply to him and he escaped the fall when most would have broken bones or necks in the landing.

The palace grounds looked bright and intimidating from the outside. The city itself was mostly dark by this time of night and the streets were unfamiliar. He curiously passed quiet shops with apartments on top that leaned into each other over the narrow streets that twisted and turned deeper into the warren of the city. He had no idea where to start looking, but the alley where he’d first seen the figure was a likely place to start.

Most of Prospit was dark and silent away from the main thoroughfare, still clogged and active from the festival. Once he got away from the light and the noise things were easier.  
Gamzee might not have ever been through the city on foot before, but he knew his way around. One of his tutors had made him memorize the layout of the city not too long ago. ‘The Prince should always know the details of his domain’ and all that. It sure came in handy now.

It was early morning when he found the correct alley. It was crammed with barrels and empty wooden crates and smelled like rotting vegetables and slime mold and horse dung and a million other human leftovers. He could separate no particular scent from the fray, not even the smell of the subjugglators.

He spent a few minutes picking around the bland alley, overturning wooden slats with his boots to reveal brown rats that swarmed and skittered into new dark corners once discovered. He had no idea what he was even looking for and abruptly realized how foolish he was. His cheeks burned with heat.

What had he been thinking? That he would simply wander around until he found a specific stranger and ask what exactly? Gamzee kicked a pile of rubbish with his boot. The noise startled something living and he spun around, expecting danger.

A ginger cat stared at him with lamp-like eyes, a limp rat in its jaws. He paused, he hadn’t seen a cat up close before. It stared at him languidly but with the watchful distrust of a fellow hunter. The longer he stared at it, the more the fur rose along its back and tail until it growled at him around its prey and slunk out of sight.

Gamzee slumped. It was pretty universal that animals hated him. Something about the Makara made them want to run away or bite. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

The prince didn’t want to go back yet. He didn’t want to admit defeat. He’d never been alone in the city and he wasn’t done exploring even if his poorly planned hunt had been a bust. The streets were dark and full of intriguing scents that drew his nose and filled his head with images of city life. He was taken back to the festival, just for a moment, until the memory of the cloaked person snapped him back to the present with a sharp ache.

Gamzee closed his brown eyes and groaned. The echo of remembrance sang inside him and he ached with loneliness. 

Suddenly he sat upright, heart pounding as he scrubbed at his sleepy eyes and blinked them wide awake. If his suspicion was correct, and he was almost certain that it was and that stranger was who he thought they were, then the prince should have a way to find them. Maybe. Probably.

He folded his legs up like a newborn colt amongst the cobblestones, ignoring the slime and the filth. He sank into a meditative position and closed his eyes, hoping that the shadows would keep him safe from prying eyes. This time he looked inward for answers. It took a few minutes for him to calm down, to slip inside to an inner hidden place where things all looked backwards and twisted, a few minutes to get calm and focused enough to root around inside himself to locate where he’d felt the connection earlier today.

And like a miracle from the church itself he found it chained like steel around his heart. Gamzee’s suspicion sharpened into a certainty as he probed at the strong links. There would be no undoing this bond. That stranger had to be his moirail. There was no other explanation.

The knowledge left him reeling and almost threw him out of his meditative trance, but he held onto it until once again he felt that tug, that familiar pull that told him where to look. He was chained to this stranger, and all he had to do was follow the chain to its source. 

North. Go north. It seemed so simple now. He sent up a quick prayer of thanks to past Makaras along with the promise of more blood in their name for this miracle. 

Gamzee broke out of the trance and opened his eyes, smiling widely to himself. Coming back into his mind was like falling asleep in reverse, and it left him feeling happy and peaceful. He’d never managed to completely fall into a trance like that before. If his religious tutor knew he’d probably throw a party.

His success didn’t matter at the moment. He knew where he was going, like fate was pulling his steps onto the correct path. Gamzee gave up trying to make sense of things. If this were meant to be, he’d follow this feeling along until he reached its end.

Several times he tried to stop and more accurately judge where he was headed, but he’d lost the connection upon waking. He tried to meditate to find it again by stopping and resting in the shadows, but he was twitchy and too high strung for that. His languid strolling was interrupted by a quickness, excitement taking over as his heart raced. 

And it didn’t matter. If they were linked by fate they would meet again, simple as that. Maybe trying to rush things along was doomed to fail, but Gamzee liked believing in personal control over fate, insofar as that ideology could take him. 

The further north he went the darker and more run down the buildings became. The streets narrowed further and the buildings grew cramped and looming. If it wasn’t for the palace shining up on the hill he might have gotten lost in the confusion.

Gamzee hadn’t felt the tug since he’d meditated for it, but now he could feel it again. Excitement rushed through his bloodstream. He was getting closer. Could the other person feel this connection growing stronger as well, or was that just a perk of Gamzee being the Makara? The thought brought him up short. He hoped they could, otherwise this was going to get extremely weird.

He was on the street level now. There weren’t any personal houses around and it was dark enough to hide him still. This wasn’t exactly a friendly looking place to be. Nervousness crept up on him and stalled his feet, but the chain was still dragging him forward, almost against his will by this point.

Gamzee could hear people nearby, hear them sleeping soundly from alleys and eves. His keen ears picked up the subtle sounds easily. A small fire burned at the back of an alley, surrounded by sleeping forms and a lone guard. He paused curiously before moving on from the strange encampment. Just a few more streets to go.

He turned down a dead end street walled off by crumbling buildings. All of his hunter’s senses were in full drive. Anticipation filled him like a rush of bloody wine or Faygo on a hot day. He’d found them. He heard a heartbeat thudding loud and fast. A rustle of movement, the gentle brush of fabric on skin. He took a single step forward, lips trembling as his eyes peeled back the darkness.

He saw the edge of a gray cloak ghost a shadow over the rough ground before disappearing through a hole in a wall. A series of loud crashing and banging noises followed after it.

They were running from him?

Momentary confusion and hurt brought him up short and he gnawed at his bottom lip. Gamzee was a stranger to them, he rationalized. If someone followed the prince down a dark alley at night he’d run too. Or not. But still.

He comforted himself and his hurt pride. All he had to do was explain and everything would be fine. And it wasn’t like they were ever going to escape now. He had their scent.

He quickly ducked through the hole to follow after them. He intended to track them, but a flash of movement made him reconsider. 

He rolled on instinct, narrowly avoiding the blade as it swung down where his neck had been a moment ago from where he’d stuck his head through the hole. He was almost beheaded like a chicken for the soup, and it was only his unnatural reflexes that saved him. Motherfuck, the cloaked person was fast. But so was the prince.

Adrenaline shot through him, and in a split second he was up and so was his anger, painting red across the back of his mouth with a bitter flash. He had the person by the front of that cloak before the blade could fully fall. Not a moment later he let them go. He wasn’t trying to scare them and he had little trust in his claws when he could feel the promise of violence singing through his blood. He fought it back. 

They were in a different dead end ally now, identical to a thousand other alleys. They stared at each other silently. The figure was still fully concealed behind that cloak, but in the darkness Gamzee now caught the gleam of eyes, the faint shadow of a nose. They were over a foot and a half shorter than him and held a sickle tightly at their side. The odd weapon was old but polished to an edge that shone.

“Why did you try to kill me?” Gamzee asked curiously, shaking off the dust of the street as he straightened in curiosity. They hadn’t run, and at this point they must know who he was. In the scattered moonlight his horned shadow stretched across the ground between them, no hiding there.

A gloved hand twitched. Gamzee could feel that he was starting to grin like a happy idiot, the expression pulling his mouth wide and lose all at the same time. He’d had been right.

“Be- because!” The cloaked figure said, bringing up the sickle between them again. He could immediately tell it was a guy’s voice, though hoarse and scratchy. “Because you’re the fucking Makara.”

“So?” He asked happily, not getting it. What was there to get? He had a moirail. All the chaos of the festival had swirled together and spat out this new miracle and who were they to question it?

The guy groaned. “I cannot be the moirail of the Makara. I thought not even my luck would be that un-ironically bad, but no. Here I am, in an ally, talking to the Prince of the city himself. It seems the universe has gifted me with its final fuck you.” The guy shifted lower, the sickle swinging around in readiness. “Well it can fuck right off. I’m not going to go quietly.” He finished his angry rant with a huff. 

What the fuck? The guy just stood there, obviously waiting for Gamzee to attack him. He didn’t get half of what the guy just said, the words floated right out of his mind, but through the fog of his budding joy there seemed to be some sort of misunderstanding.

“You do know what a moirail is, right brother?” He asked, still utterly confused. The guy had said the word, he must know what it meant.

The small figure puffed up angrily. “Now you’re insulting me. Of course I know what a moirail is, what kind of stupid question is that? Do you think I’m fucking stupid too?”

“Then what’s the problem?” This meeting was not going at all like he’d imagined and he felt like he was the stupid one. Was he doing something wrong?

“The problem is…. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.” He wasn’t speaking to Gamzee anymore. He kept repeating the phrase, growing slightly more hysterical each time he did.

The Makara made a move to calm him down- they were moirails after all- but the guy choked out “Stay where you are! Don’t come any closer.”

Gamzee’s hand drifted down back to his side. This wasn’t going right at all. Distress ate at him and burned away his caution. “Why not?” he challenged, rising up to his full height of over six feet. A flicker of anger sparked through him that he struggled to reel back. First he’d been attacked, now refused. He felt hurt and bitter.

“Because I can’t be your moirail,” his new moirail pleaded, “Because you will be the death of me.”

That did it. Gamzee lacked patience and was over this hooded guy’s cryptic desperation. A flicker of dark emotion narrowed his eyes. He was the Makara- he got to decide who lived and who died. And he wasn’t planning on being the death of anyone anytime soon. And this stranger was pushing him closer to an edge he refused to think about.

The anger sent a stutter surging through him, some twisting mass of rage and hot-blooded hate. He closed his eyes, struggling to regain his calm.

The guy apparently decided that Gamzee had just given him the perfect opportunity to run and bolted off in a rush of retreating footsteps.

The prince’s eyes shot open and he sighed, then gave a short chase. Even with the rage humming inside him he wasn’t willing to let this stranger get away yet. He still wanted answers. He still needed to… understand what could get his blood all up and anxious like this, just from the act of being near this unknown brother.

Gamzee had him before he made it to the mouth of the alley. He moved with a hunter’s grace, all long limbed agility and speed, and he reached out, snatched a handful of fabric near the guy’s shoulder. His claws snagged the rough fabric and the guy’s hood slipped off for the first time.

Pale. That was the first thing Gamzee could think about. So very, very pale. Like something that had never seen the sun. Hair white as snow. Skin white as the most blasphemous sinner to ever draw their fucking breath in the Makara’s city.

Completely stunned, he reared back. His moirail blinked, crimson eyes hardening with sheer terror as he realized what had just happened.

Gamzee had seen him. Seen the heresies lashed across that milky flesh in waves to sicken his gut. Red eyes, the color of a blood far too holy for one such as him to wear. Like lightning, the realization struck him- His new moirail was cursed.

Somewhere deep inside of Gamzee his very soul collapsed in on itself. Distantly, he could hear the laughter of the Mirthful Messiah’s in full, deep-throated bellows of raw humor over this vast cosmic joke.

He had to kill him. He had to kill his moirail.


	2. Roll away your Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I am trying to see how many Mumford and Sons songs I can cram into this fic. For some reason their music always reminds me of Gamzee for reasons mostly unknown.

Cause you told me that I would find a hole  
Within the fragile substance of my soul  
And I have filled this void with things unreal  
And all the while my character it steals

Chapter Two

Gamzee’s hands shook. His claws ached to pierce warm skin and rip the blood from he that dared to stand before the Makara. But his heart was screaming from his chest, a connection stronger than steel pulled tight enough to stop his breath. Motherfuck, his head hurt with thinking. Everything he had ever been taught was yelling for the blood of the heretic before him, but he stood frozen.

The guy slipped his hood back on wordlessly, the sickle held high and ready. Conflict crashed across his shadowed face as he made to turn away.

Gamzee broke out of his stupor, his bones like ice. “Wait.”

“You know I can’t,” came the answer. The Makara’s throat was tight.

“Can I at least know your name first?” Gamzee asked. The figure snorted.

“So you can call me by name before you kill me?” The guy taunted bitterly.

“No,” Gamzee said desperately. “I…” The words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t promise not to kill him, not that. Not when everything was shifting broken anxious and afraid.

“Karkat,” the hooded figure breathed out. “My name is Karkat, and if you follow me I’ll try my hardest to kill you.”

Karkat.

Gamzee swallowed, nodding wordlessly as he let Karkat slip away unscathed into the night. He closed his eyes and ears against his retreat to stop him from trying to follow. His breath came painful in his lungs. He blinked and his eyes were misty.

He probably stood there in that alley for 15 minutes before he began the trek back to the palace. His mind was full of crashing thunder and muffled thoughts. Gamzee had never felt so alone before. He tried to think his way out of this.

His moirail was cursed. The thought came out like a question. How was he even alive?

And most importantly, what kind of irony was this? How could the Makara’s soul twin be cursed?

What a joke. What a fucking joke. The gods were pulling a good one right now, with Gamzee as the punchline. 

He was tempted to just walk up to the palace gate and ask them to open the door for him. He’d lost all thrill of sneaking around. But doing so could cause some problems so he went back over the wall and made his way back to his rooms in secret where he stared wordlessly at the gilded ceiling until the sun rose.

Gamzee skipped breakfast.

Then lunch.

A lesser priest came to check on him after he missed the meal and didn’t show up for his tutoring classes. The Makara sent him away at the door without a word.

Gamzee was confused. The gods must have a wicked sense of humor in doing this to one of their own. That part he could respect, at least. But the prince knew all good jokes ended with blood and that sickened him to his core.

He didn’t know what to do, and this wasn’t something he could tell anyone else about. Karkat’s paleness and red eyes marked him as cursed as clearly as Gamzee’s horns marked him as the Makara. He was cursed- so he must be killed. That was the law that he’d been raised with. It came easy as breathing, to follow the church and it’s law. 

But they were moirails. That couldn’t be debated. Moirails were sacred- even convicted criminals with highborn moirails were sometimes spared from death in order to preserve the partner. Moirails were a miracle, one holy and sacred in the only way that didn’t involve bloodshed.

He was committing treason by keeping Karkat’s existence a secret, that much was certain. Every breath the cursed drew was a direct insult to the Messiahs.

Suddenly Gamzee couldn’t take the confining walls around him anymore and he stormed out. The hallways were cluttered with worshipers and pilgrims and servants this time of day. They all instinctively got out of his way as he passed. Their prince was on edge and they could sense it. He was a storm just about to break.

He went to the chapel. It was thankfully empty and he went and sat beneath the high glass windows and let the bloody light cut his shadow into jagged pieces across the floor. There were pictures of past Makara’s adorning the walls around him. Gamzee knew them all by heart, all the way back to the first who founded this nation and Prospit as its capital. They all bore the characteristic horns and claws that marked them as inhuman and holy. The only differences were in their faces and their chosen face paint. 

The previous Makara occupied a place of glory above the sacrificial alter still wet with blood from last night’s fun. He could smell its coppery scent from here, and for once the scent was oddly enticing. The painting directly above the alter was different from the rest. Other past Makara’s sneered down at him or aggressively grinned sharp toothed grins, but Kurloz wasn’t doing any of that.

The Makara that came before stared solemnly out of the painting, thick black lines painted over his lips. There was something sly the prince couldn’t name in his painted eyes.

Gamzee needed answers. Now. Logically he knew that one of the past Makara’s might know a solution to his problem, but he’d never managed to recover any memories from past selves. All of his teachers had told him that remembering came with time and not to worry, but he was sixteen and the date of his ascension was rapidly approaching. 

Gamzee studied the paintings until he felt a subtle shift inside him. Unsettled, he began to wander again, restless and hungry, until he found himself in front of the ceremonial door to the royal vault. The guards, both subjugglators, bowed respectfully and let him pass.

“Send me a high priest.” Gamzee snapped at them just before the heavy door closed. He was sure they heard the order as he stalked deeper into the vault.

It was dark, lit only by tiny slatted windows. Torches hung unlit from the walls and he left them untouched. His eyes could see in the dark just fine.

Silver and purple pedestals ringed the room, each crowned with a single horned skull. The vault had many chambers but he was only interested in the first, the tomb. Maybe if he was near the remains of past selves he could better remember them.

Korzen had said that he should remember Kurloz first, as that was the last Makara. When Gamzee was younger he’d spent untold hours in this room, trying to gleam into another life.

Gamzee came to a stop before the mounted skull of Kurloz Makara. All in all, he didn’t look any different from the rest of them, except maybe his twisted horns weren’t as large as some who had died at an old age. If it weren’t from the gilded nameplate he couldn’t tell the difference.

The Makara crossed his legs and sat before the skull, trying to meditate but failing miserably. How had it been so easy last night? Frustration made him bare his fangs and he growled softly. What was he doing wrong?!

The door creaked open and he cranked his neck around irritably to see who it was. Korzen quietly entered the chamber and spotted the prince sitting on the floor. A hint of relief cooled some of the anger in him.

If the skulls weren’t going to talk, he was going to find his answers elsewhere. The high priest crossed the floor and sat companionably beside his charge, albeit a little further away than usual. He too could sense the rage Gamzee was holding back.

“This is a new one for you Gamzee.” He said, picking at the sleeve of his robe. “You missed two meals and all of your lessons. Something the matter?”

The Makara could hear his mentor’s elevated heartbeat. He was happy. He probably thought the prince was becoming more like a proper Makara with the amount of rage he was giving off. Gamzee could smell the blood that was still seeped into the hem of his robe from the morning’s sacrifice.

He kept quiet. He was still trying to gather the right words together.

“Did all that blood last night at the festival spark something inside you?” Korzen asked tentatively. “Something you want to talk about?”

Gamzee snorted instinctively, then immediately felt bad about it. No need to crush his hopes. Korzen was as close to a father figure that the young Makara had, albeit a shitty one at best.

“I don’t think so.” He sighed, then blurted out “Tell me about the cursed.”

The priest’s eyebrows rose, but he answered readily. “The cursed are those who at birth are imperfect or malformed. You know this.” He shrugged.

Gamzee barely restrained himself from snarling at him, but there as a light squeal as his claws dug into the stone floor.

“Tell me more."

Korzen swallowed, then tentatively continued after he wisely dropped his condescending tone. “The cursed are marked at birth for death. By law all children born malformed or imperfect are to be given up to the subjagglators. The cursed are then sacrificed according to the law with the rest of the offerings each week. Doing so ensures genetic purity and promotes harmony among the classes by removing unsavory civilians.”

He knew all of this already! He had been schoolfed this since the time he could walk. “What else can you tell me?” he asked, growing more and more frustrated. 

Gamzee could see that Korzen wanted to ask some questions of his own, but he thoughtfully held his tongue.

He paused, smoothing down his robes. “There is a theory among some of the Highborn that the cursed are born flawed because the gods mark them as such. They believe that a marked child is one fated to become a villain so evil that the gods cripple them as a preventive caution.”

That was something new. Surprise dulled most of his inexplicable anger.

“Is this theory widely believed?” He asked curiously. The information managed to distract him from his tangled thoughts for a moment.

“Not very.” Korxis said. “Some of the subjugglators and lesser priests hold with it, but those of esteem and religious morals know it to be an idle dream and not a fact.”

“It’s a nice idea though.” Gamzee admitted. “That the gods are helpful enough to show the bad ones before they can act.” It was all a lie. There was nothing worse than the unfounded murder of children, but he had to go along with it. Be the Makara. He repeated the mantra several times in his head, clinging to it like the scriptures. Be the Makara. 

Maybe one day he wouldn’t have to keep reminding himself of that fact.

“I suppose so. It can be a comforting thought.” Korzen sighed. “It would be more reassuring though to the populace if their Makara and prince fully embraced his role.”

The nudge was not as gentle as it had been in the past. Korzen was growing worried for him.

Maybe Gamzee should just go out and gruesomely murder a dozen random people. That would calm their minds. But the thought held no power. Gamzee would never seriously consider such a thing, regardless of its precedents. 

Maybe Korzen was right. Maybe he was a failure as a Makara.

“Do you think I’ll ever remember anything? Was there some sort of mistake with me?” Uncertainty and more than a little fear made a sour taste coat his tongue as he asked the question.

Korzen actually laughed. “Oh no, Gamzee.” He said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’re definitely the Makara. And don’t worry. Several books and journals clearly state that some Makara’s don’t begin to show memories or religious tendencies until after they ascend the throne. It’ll come to you.” He promised. “I’m sure of it.”

Gamzee didn’t feel much better. “Can you tell me what Kurloz was like?” he asked, the horned skull still leering down at him from its pedestal. 

“Of course.” Said Korzen, looking fondly at the skull before them. “I knew him well, or as well as any knew him. You see, Gamzee,” Korzen said, looking at him again. “There was no one who really knew Kurloz. They call Kurloz the Mysterious Makara for a reason. He always kept to himself, never talked much, never made friends. Many think that the black lines across his lips were a secret joke on all us priests- they highlighted how tight-lipped he was. Even with all of that Kurloz was still an excellent Makara. While he was prince the country flourished. He led us well and with a firm hand.”

A sudden thought occurred to him. “How did he die?” Gamzee asked. “He wasn’t much older than 31, if I’m remembering my studies correctly. I’ve never given it much thought before now, but how did he die? Was he killed by something?”

Korzen shifted uncomfortably, then looked away. He wouldn’t meet the prince’s eyes. 

“No Gamzee, he wasn’t killed by something or someone. Kurloz was as mysterious in death as he was in life. Not even I can say what it was that made him die, only that we found him after he missed an important meeting.”

That was… shockingly unsatisfying. Gamzee could imagine his teacher’s shame at not knowing. His heartbeat fluttered. Before his eyes the skull of Kurloz shifted, the image fractured into splinters and reshaped itself until a face stared back at him instead of bone and teeth. Black hair, olive skin dark as his own, and black eyes. The disembodied head persisted for a moment, then he blinked and the apparition was gone.

Holy shit. Motherfuckers be messing with his head now. Fuck. 

“Anything wrong Gamzee?” Korzen asked, catching his brief lapse of attention.

“No,” he lied, turning back to the high priest as he finished blinking away the after-image of Kurloz’s soft eyes. “You may go now.”

Korzen paused, but knew that he was being dismissed. He rose to go and Gamzee called out after him. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

“Anytime, your Prince.”

“Wait!” he said, just before the high priest disappeared through the thick doorway of the vault.

“Yes, what is it?” Korzen asked.

Gamzee gnawed on his lower lip, worrying that he would give too much away. “Have any past Makara’s ever had a moirail?” He must have heard how the tone had changed.

Korzen froze, then slowly turned to face the Makara once more. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” he said, stone faced. He resisted the urge to look away.

Korzen’s eyes narrowed. “Finding a moirail is serious.” He said. “Surely you remember that, Gamzee.”

“I know.” He said, pressing harder. “Have any Makaras ever had one?”

The priest’s eyes narrowed further. “Yes, though it’s not common.” Korzen admitted. “Have you found yours Gamzee? If you have I would recommend telling right now.”

“Why?”

His teacher shrugged, suddenly nonchalant. “The Makara can have a moirail. It’s happened before, but never has it ended well.” He said forebodingly. 

“Why not?” Instinctive dread crept up and tightened the cords at his shoulders. His skin crawled.

“You know a characteristic of the Makara is their sudden anger and violence. We rely on it to cleanse us of our sins, but to a moirail such uncontrolled and unpredictable rage is incredibly dangerous.” The high priest explained. “In the past most Makaras have inadvertently killed their moirail during such a rampage. As a result a Makara having a moirail is a serious threat to both them and the nation itself, for as you can imagine the knowledge that they’ve slaughtered their own moirail often drives them insane. There have even been times where such a Makara forced the clergy to have him put down for the safety of the city.”

As the words poured over him Gamzee was going to throw up. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. He choked it back. Maybe Karkat had been right. Maybe he was going to be the death of him.

He couldn’t imagine losing control and going on a murderous rampage like previous Makaras. It was his biggest theological flaw. But if it did happen… could he hurt someone close to him? His moirail even?

“I’ll be sure to tell you then, if I ever encounter my twin soul.” Gamzee drawled out, every inch as nonchalant as the high priest, who suddenly looked like he’d just seen the ghost of Kurloz in the young Makara from where he lounged beneath the skull. Gamzee had never needed to lie to a priest before, but now the words fell easily from his tongue. Korxis nodded and left him alone with his thoughts, listening to the ghosts of dead Makaras that he couldn’t understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I needed one more slow chapter just to bring everyone up to speed about whats going on in this fic. After this things will pick up now that the ball is rolling.


	3. The Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three

Wide-eyed with a heart made full of fright  
Your eyes follow like tracers in the night  
And the tightrope that you wander everytime  
You have been weighed, you have been found wanting

 

That night he snuck out again. The lack of sleep was beginning to wear on him but he shook it off. He was hyper-aware and twitchy. The need for sleep wasn’t an issue, not when he and Karkat needed to talk.

This time it was easy for Gamzee to track Karkat down. Once he had the scent it was easy to track him, even where he’d obviously tried to cover all traces of his passing by sweeping away footprints and going over rooftops.

Already it was shocking how familiar the smell was to Gamzee. He swore he could find it anywhere.

Gamzee found him still awake even at this early hour. He’d tracked him past what appeared to be a alley composed of various shacks and unstable dwellings. He could hear sleeping people inside them, and a small fire burned where two individuals who he guessed were guards of a kind stood watch. It was similar to the encampment he’d passed last night.

He curiously watched them as he snuck by undetected. What was this place?

The Makara didn’t have the time to find out now and regretfully left it behind.

He found Karkat not far away, but not nearby either. His scent led to a hole in a mudbrick building that was crumbling under its own weight and appeared abandoned. It was at ground level, but the tunnel through the wall led upwards to the top floor where he found an angry Karkat waiting.

This time, he had a crossbow.

Gamzee froze outside the door, not sure if his moirail knew he was there in the shadows. He could move very quietly when he wanted to.

Karkat’s hood was up, concealing his face. Nothing about him had changed in the prince’s presence- he didn’t know Gamzee was here.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.”

Fuck, never mind. He’d been spotted for sure. Gamzee tried to shy into the wall for cover. The arrowhead made him nervous. He wasn’t sure if he was fast enough to dodge if Karkat loosed the bolt at him. “Well, I haven’t told a soul about you. That could be a reason.” Gamzee piped up reassuringly.

Karkat switched off the safety and took aim with disdain. “That just encourages me to kill you now. If I do, no one will know.”

Motherfuck. There he goes, running his mouth again. “Uhh…” he said, “How about because I only want to talk? I’m really confused and uncertain and I think you might have been right last night.” 

The crossbow didn’t waver, unlike his traitorous voice.

“About what, exactly?”

“About us being moirails. Can… can I come in? Just to talk?” He hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. Gamzee was coming unraveled, but slowly enough that he felt each piece begin to fray and peel back.

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

“Just to talk?” Karkat clarified.

“Yeah, just to talk, then I’ll go.”

“You won’t try anything? I will shoot you if you so much as fucking blink at me wrong, I swear.”

“Yeah.” Gamzee mumbled. “I get the point brother.”

“Fine, but I’m warning you. Don’t try anything or you’ll regret it. And I’m not your fucking brother.” 

Gamzee nodded, and forced himself to step away from the wall against his hurt and all his better instincts, his muscles strained and ready to leap away if that arrow was shot at him. Karkat may be his moirail, but Gamzee didn’t trust him not to attempt murder.

He waited for a moment, and when nothing happened he cautiously approached the doorway and entered the small room.

It was small, and cramped. A bed occupied most of the space, and a desk and several shelves cluttered with various things were shoved against the walls. The single chair was facing the doorway, occupied by an armed person who hadn’t shot him yet but still might in the immediately foreseeable future.

“I thought crossbows were illegal for anyone not a soldier or member of the city guard?” Gamzee said, not sarcastic or reprising but only curious how he’d gotten such a thing.

“They are.” Karkat said, not moving from his seat with one side of his mouth quirked up. “But anything can be stolen.”

Gamzee hovered in the doorway, then very slowly entered the room and immediately raised his hands to show he meant no harm.

They stared in silence at each other for a moment, neither sure what came next.

“So, you said your name was Karkat?” Gamzee asked.

“Yes,” he snapped, then shifted and said, “I never got yours though.”

“Gamzee,” he answered eagerly. “It’s just Gamzee.”

Karkat grunted at him. “Are you really the Makara or is this some sort of joke? I can’t decide which would be worse, given the circumstances.” He huffed at the prince angrily.

“Yeah, I’m really the Makara.” Gamzee said, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Karkat cursed under his breath. “So you’re not wearing some kind of horned helmet then? Like soldiers do sometimes?”

“Nope.” He said.

“Shit.”

“So, you’re not wearing some kind of paint are you? On your skin?” Gamzee asked, knowing it wasn’t anything but a desperate guess. There was nothing worn that could change eye color anyway.

“No, I’m not,” Karkat said slowly.

He pursed his lips, not disappointed really. He knew what he’d seen. But hope was a hard thing to let go of.

“But you are.” Karkat said. “Wearing paint, that is.”

“Yeah.” He said. “It’s because I’m the prince.” He explained. White and gray was for those in training. White, gray, and black was for the reigning Makara. Priests had white and red, but Gamzee was certain he knew all of this. This shit was street knowledge. 

Karkat muttered something under his breath that even his ears couldn’t quite pick up.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said that it’s fucking creepy.” Karkat said loudly. “Sheesh, what’s up with you? Do you need to know every smallest inconsequential thing that comes out of my mouth? It’s getting annoying and you’ve only ever said a few fucking words to me.”

The words rolled off of him harmlessly. Gamzee supposed that to him the look of the Makara was creepy. Normal people didn’t have horns and claws and stalk people to their homes in the dark. Creepy was good. He could work with creepy. Anything was better than demonic or homicidal. Creepy was better than monster.

“Is this where you live?” he asked, looking around curiously.

“Well it’s no palace but yes, it is.” Karkat said hotly as if daring him to complain.

“It’s nice.” He said truthfully. It was. He liked the lived-in look. It was far better than the stark and empty hallways and rooms of the castle.

Karkat bristled, suspicious, but didn’t accuse him of lying. Gamzee still couldn’t quite see all of his face under his hood.

The Makara decided to get down to business. “We’re moirails,” he said seriously. Some things were hard for him to focus on, but not this. It was clear as glass in his mind, and every bit as cutting.

“No shit. What gave it away?” Karkat snorted.

“Can we get serious here?” he asked. “There are things we all are needing to get our discuss on.”

Karkat froze. “Oh I assure you I’m quite serious. I have never been more serious in the entirety of my short and miserable life than I am right now.”

Gamzee was beginning to figure out the meaning behind his… confusing and colorful way of speaking. All he had to do was pick out the important things and forget the rest.

“So, what do we do about it?” Karkat asked. “Is there some way to break it off? Can we just go back to acting like we’ve never met and never see each other again? Can that work?”

The idea of Gamzee losing his moirail so soon after finding him tore at his heart, but honestly it would be the best solution for both of them.

“I’m ain’t sure.” Gamzee said. “This is a difficult idea to think about. I don’t have any answers worth saying and there’s no one I can ask.” No one other than Korzen, that is. “What do you know about moirails? Can we just stop our seeing each other? Could it really be that simple?” He knew it would not. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t try anyway.

Karkat had slowly lowered the crossbow so that it lay in his lap, still aimed at the threat lurking in the doorway. His hands were loose around it, though still close. “I don’t see another option for us.” He said, his lips pulling up on one side into a grimace. “I don’t fancy being killed. I’ve lived through too much shit to die simply because the gods decided to spice things up in the entertainment division. And you,” he pointed at Gamzee accusingly. “You have no idea about who I am and I’m going to keep it that way.”

That line irked him, tickled some humorous quirk. “I am your moirail.” He said. “Surely out of everyone I should have some idea about you. Twin souls and all that, brother.” He grinned reassuringly. Big mistake, he realized too late.

“You’re the fucking prince!” Karkat yelled angrily, and the crossbow came up again as his eyes widened with anger. “And I’m fucking cursed. I hate you and everything you stand for and nothing in this world can ever change that.” The words cut into him deeply, causing wounds that Karkat then rubbed verbal salt into while Gamzee cringed away from the sudden explosion of noise.

“I’ve spent my whole life running, an outcast all because the very differences I’m hated for are worshiped on you! All of the suffering I’ve ever experienced or encountered in this world can be directly traced back to your cruel religion and you in specific, and you have the sheer stupidity and nerve to sit there on your high throne and tell me that you have an idea about who I am! Bullshit.”

Gamzee was cringing away by this point. He knew anger, he’d been taught it since he could throw a tantrum and shriek, but he had never encountered a rage like this before. Gamzee’s hate, weak as it may have been, was a thing of black rage sculpted by his religious doctrine. Karkat burned with a righteous fury that the Makara could not ever hope to match. Karkat’s lips were pulled back from his teeth and his eyes flashed with wrath as he tore into the prince accusingly.

“All you know is to sit up in your comfy palace and have servants tend to your every smallest need, and listen to whatever political religious slurry those bloodthirsty idiots you call priests shove down your naive but willing throat. You’ve never gone hungry. You’ve never lost your family and seen them killed right in front of you simply because you were born a freak.”

Karkat ripped off his hood, and his red eyes were blazing like bloody embers. Their color was unnatural and deeply disturbing, especially contrasted against skin so pale it was almost translucent. Even his lips lacked color. The sight was just as shocking to Gamzee as before, but now Karkat’s face was twisted with anger and those red eyed glittered with hate.

Karkat stood up and he felt the urge to back away. Very few times had other people made him afraid, but he could feel that Karkat was mad enough to inflict serious harm with that massive crossbow. The force of his anger filled the small room. Karkat didn’t even have to aim the bow, just point and shoot and he’d be fucked.

For a second his sheer awe of such a hate stumped him. The air was thick with it, a rage deep and powerful and utterly sacred and from someone so abhorrently unholy that the irony made him nearly chuckle. Motherfuck, a cursed was out-raging the Makara himself.

Gamzee felt something shift inside him. “So then shoot me then!” Gamzee challenged recklessly, throwing out his arms. His anger rose as well, though only a fraction of what Karkat’s was. Try as he might, getting mad at his moirail was an impossible task. It didn’t help that Karkat’s anger was well-founded.

Karkat froze, his eyes looking uncertain, unsure if the other boy was being serious.

“Go on, shoot me.” Gamzee urged. “Make me feel pain like you have, bleed me out slow and proper with that crossbow you’ve got. Take your revenge, take it! If that’s what will make you listen to me!” He didn’t know what had come over him, but he was going to roll with it even if it carried him right off a cliff.

If this was faith, then he would prostrate himself before the pillar of his moirail’s hatred and let it wash him whole and faithful again. “I am your moirail, and I don’t think I can stop seeing you. Motherfuck, I’ve only known you for two days and the idea is already unbearable to get my thoughts on,” the prince said.

Gamzee took a deep breath, then continued. “I am the Makara and you are cursed.” The two of them could not exist together. Everything he’d ever known was telling him to kill Karkat but not even loyalty to his country or his church could force him to. The thought alone was like ripping out an eye. Clearly Karkat was a bad influence on him. He was breaking all the laws by now.

“I’m committing high treason by just speaking with you but I can’t kill you.” He said, the truth flaying his throat open on its way out. “I know I can’t.” Gamzee admitted heartbrokenly. He just didn’t have the murder in him. He went on. “I’m not strong enough.” Karkat was his moirail even if that’s the single most fucked up fucking thing the world has ever seen and he was going to have to learn to deal with it. He had to. 

“This is so fucked up,” Karkat said, his hands still on the trigger. 

“I fucking know it,” Gamzee agreed. “Motherfuck, if its easier for you then go ahead and kill me now. It’s the least painful outcome and its one where I don’t get you motherfucking killed in the end. That’s the most important thing to me now and it’s so fucked up.”

Gamzee ran his hands through his thick hair, trying not to pull it out by the roots. There was too much inside of him. Too many thoughts and feelings and secret insecurities and nothing made sense anymore. Everything was so backwards and fucked up and Gamzee feel like just laughing at how wrong everything was, laughing until he went utterly fucking hiveshit.

Karkat’s face had completely frozen. Not a single emotion was visible.

“I never done went and asked for this.” Gamzee said, slow and desperate, begging that Karkat understood. He’d never begged for anything before. “Moirail. But it’s done and can’t be undone. So… Do what you need to do.” He swallowed, highly aware that he had given too much away.

Karkat took a deep breath and too careful aim. His heart fell. Apparently he hadn’t gotten through to his moirail. He braced himself to dodge. Even with all that talk he wasn’t about to let himself get killed for nothing. And that arrowhead looked like it’d hurt like a motherfucker.

“Oh you asshole,” Karkat breathed. “Don’t you dare try and make me the bad guy here. It’s you who’s the villain.” He hesitated, still holding the crossbow leveled at Gamzee’s chest. Conflict crashed in his red eyes so clearly the prince could almost see his thoughts as they passed. The moment faded. Karkat slowly let the arrowhead drop to the floor. Then he scowled and turned away.

“So, you’re not going to shoot me?” Gamzee asked, just making sure.

Karkat grimaced. “Not tonight, though I know I definitely should. This is madness.”

“That I can get my agree on.” Gamzee said gladly, then yawned. His sleepless nights were catching up with a vengeance. His eyelids felt heavy. How long had it been since he’d slept? He’d lost count a handful of hours ago.

His new moirail noticed. “You know what else we can agree on?” he asked, then set his crossbow down onto the floor.

“No, what?” Gamzee asked.

“That nothing’s going to get solved tonight.” Karkat bit at his thumbnail with his teeth distractedly. “This isn’t a simple issue with clear and easy solutions, so for now at least let’s make an agreement.”

“What agreement?” Gamzee asked curiously. He was willing to try anything once.

“I don’t kill you, you don’t kill me. And we don’t get each other killed either. It’s really fucking simple.” He said grumpily. “If we can trust each other enough to do that we might be able to get somewhere.”

Gamzee was deeply relieved and easily agreed. He had no intention of getting Karkat killed. “Sound’s fine to me.” He yawned again. He needed sleep if he was going to make it through tomorrow. “I’d better head back.” He said, and slowly stood, stretching as he did so. “Can I see you again soon?”

“No.” Karkat said immediately. A touch of hurt pricked at Gamzee at the quickness of his response. 

Karkat must have noticed it, but he didn’t show guilt. “Wait a few days.” He cautioned. “We both need time to think about this.”

Gamzee agreed readily. “I’ll follow your lead,” he said.

“And Gamzee?” Karkat asked as the prince turned away.

“What brother?”

“Don’t call me brother,” Karkat said sharply.

Gamzee swallowed thickly, his breath huffing out in the shadows. “Alright. I can be doing that.” It was the small things that fit themselves like pages into the book that he was binding in his head about his new moirail. Don’t call him brother. Don’t get him killed. 

Karkat snorted again, but this time there was a laugh embedded in it. “Thanks, I guess.”

“For what?” he wished he could see Karkat’s face, but he’d turned away as well. An awkward silence stretched between them. 

“For not freaking the fuck out about me,” Karkat said, gesturing to all of himself with a fast sweep of his gloved hand. “Most do. You didn’t. You just kind of fucking rolled with it. Thanks.”

“It’s alright,” Gamzee said. “I’m chill with it.” He didn’t get much for judgement of others, not when he had a pair of fucking horns. It put things in perspective. They were both freaks. “Thanks as well,” he said. “About not getting your freak out on with me.”

“The fucking Makara,” Karkat shook his head “I’m sure that’ll hit me in a minute. It doesn’t feel real.”

Gamzee took a deep breath filled with the scent of his moirail. Yes, this felt real. Maybe the most real anything had ever felt before. He could live inside of this moment, buried deep enough into it that the rest of the world didn’t matter.

That the morning wouldn’t come to shed it’s sunlight over all the truths they were still trying to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok yeah I kind of hate this chapter but after this I get my crap together. Plot is coming. There's a point to this fic I swear.


	4. Just Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon I will find out what I'm doing here. This whole fic is just me messing around while I wait for some finalization on things I'm actually putting more than 3% effort into

The flame burnt out in our empty hands  
But now I see it's got nothing to do  
It's got nothing to do

Chapter Four

It went like this.

Every second night Gamzee would sneak out to see Karkat. Every morning he returned with his head full of Prospit’s dark streets and his mind quiet and easy. It was rapidly growing upside down, when Gamzee trudged through his days in anticipation of the nights, when Karkat stopped greeting him with a crossbow to the face though things were still tense and uneasy between them.

For the first time, Gamzee knew peace.

Not another soul suspected what he was up to- and it was vital the matter stay that way. The longer this went on the more dangerous it was that someone would notice the prince’s empty rooms and investigate, but he was unable to stop seeing his moirail.

Gamzee always heard stories about moirail pairs and how close they were, but he’d never imagined that the Makara could have a moirail. His entire future had shifted, priorities falling out of orbit and rearranging themselves around a new star that was the focal point of his life. He had never had friends or family before, he only knew the castle and his tutors and the priests with their bloodshed and scriptures. The church had raised him. Worship was all he had known.

But now Gamzee had a moirail, and no matter how complicated and impossible that thought felt at times Gamzee wasn’t planning on changing anything. 

This cycle of sneaking out and in again went on for two weeks without a hitch. Each time they met in a different place. He was learning first-hand about his city and its wonders. If he slept through a few morning lessons, he’d make up the work later and no one asked questions.

His daytime antics were improving rapidly as well, probably due to Karkat’s influence.

He’d astounded his mentors with his newfound ability to meditate and drew a map of the main city from memory. It felt like his eyes were open, like he was finally awake. Some fog had lifted, and he could see things clearly for the first time.

Gamzee was becoming an expert at sneaking about and getting away with it. The few close calls he had with sneaking away he’d laugh about once the danger had passed. A stray subjugglator or soldier stalking the palace grounds he avoided with ease and Karkat never had to know.

The situation was complicated, the future uncertain. He would turn 17 in a matter of months, then fully ascend the throne and rule the nation on his own. Already the deadlines were beginning to crack down on him.

Korzen was glad to manage the changing city as Prospit prepared for the event. Priests flocked to the city as Gamzee was groomed for takeover.

As such, he was required to meet several bright young highborn children and teens who were considered the growing best in their fields. Gamzee had not interacted with many people his age before, and they all seemed to treat him with a cold but respectful awe. Or fear. He hated the fear the most. If there was one thing he liked about Karkat, it was his moirail’s complete and utter dismissal of Gamzee’s rank and title. To him the prince was nothing special. It was amazing how reliving that was.

Socializing with the highborn meant a party. He didn’t like parties much, but he understood why this was all necessary for him. The party, that was, not the outfit he found laid out for him that afternoon.  
The vest was royal purple silk and fronted with golden tassels, and golden shoulder pieces completed the look. The lining of his sleeves was crimson, so that as he moved it would flash like blood. The boots had a heel, to exaggerate his already intimidating height. His dresser had wanted to string thin gold chains from between his horns, but that was where he drew the line.

He felt better about the finery once he had it on, not so much like a beast crammed into a silk suit as he’d feared. It fit him comfortably and followed his frame. He looked sleek and dangerous and his horns gleamed.

Gamzee arrived after the rest of the party, as was his place as prince, to arrive late so that every eye was drawn to him when the doors opened. His skin prickled with all of the eyes on him, and he was introduced to multiple firstborn children of high priests and head guardsmen and soldier’s sons and others of power and influence.

Korzen nudged him forward onto the floor of the ballroom after tucking a white rose dipped in dried blood into a breast pocket. “For luck,” he said, winking.

Gamzee steeled himself and joined the party. The quartet in the corner kept an upbeat pace with their strings as dancers mingled.

For all that he was interested in making friends, he felt like a clumsy beast moving among the flashy dresses and silks of the court even in his regal outfit. Never before had his claws and horns stood out so much. For the first time, Gamzee felt distinctly out of place in the palace. He tried to stand shorter than normal and not look intimidating, hunching his shoulders and thinking small thoughts as the dancing teens left a bubble of space around him.

Korzen handled most of the introductions, lingering over names and families that the prince guessed were supposed to mean something, but they all blurred toggether. Only a few really stood out. There was this one girl who was considered the most beautiful and classy expected socialite. He didn’t remember the sister’s name, but he thought her face was glassy and empty. There was also this young brother with straight black hair and strong arms, some archery and weapons genius who’d probably take over the garrison one day. Gamzee talked with him for a bit. He was respectful and fidgety without a sword at his hip, and one of the few to look the Makara in the eye.

All these so-called prestigious offspring mingled mostly with themselves. None approached him alone or unprovoked, and even when he tried to get them to stay, to talk, they fled at the first opportunity. He began to miss Karkat’s obstinate refusal to be afraid. These meek motherfuckers were beginning to get on his nerves.

So when he saw someone who stood truly straight-backed and unafraid, he took an instant interest.

She stood out at once, wearing worn trousers and a plain top. Her hair was cut jagged short above her shoulders, and when she grinned at him her teeth that were unnaturally pronounced. It was not a pretty sight, but it was arresting all the same. Her face was coarse and plain and blemished, but her eyes were bright and her walk smooth as she cut purposefully through the crowd like a predator on the hunt. She cut for him, all sharp teeth and thin grace through the party goers. 

Gamzee stood still and felt his shoulders rise out of their hunch as she strode forward. Before she could answer Korzen, always there, always watchful, appeared at his back. “Ah, there our young star is.” He said, adjusting his spectacles to take a closer look. “Your Prince,” he said, bowing deeply to his charge, “This is young Terezi, a rising legislacerator. I hear she’s quite ruthless and cunning in her field. I expect great things from you, miss.” He said seriously.

Terezi slowly looked at the ground and spoke quietly, but there was something unspeakably sly about the sudden meekness of her actions. “I always expect the great things, sir.” She said. “For those are the ones that are worth it.”

“Wise words.” Korzen said. “I’ll leave you two to it then.” He nodded, and departed in a swirl of white, black, and blue.

“A legislacerator?” Gamzee inquired curiously. He’d never heard of one so young before, but it fit the watchfulness of her sharp eyes. He could sense the viciousness resting inside her. This was not a girl to be messed with. She was all up with the wicked bloodshed and itching for a target.

She bowed, but the gesture lacked respect. It was stiff and informal and he got the sense that it was secretly mocking. His interest flared.

“Oh yes, prince.” She said mischievously. “The law must be upheld to ensure a smooth society.” She went on for several more lines, but Gamzee could tell they’d be rehearsed. 

“No.” The Makara cut her off, and she rocked back on her feet, wary but calculating. “Tell me what it is in your words, not theirs.” 

The girl considered her prince for a moment. He’d just changed the game on her, but she recovered without a single pause. “I am judge, jury, and executioner.” She said, smiling with something like hunger. “I find out people’s secrets and blackmail them into doing what I or my client wants. I’m the hunter that gets sent out to deal the city’s justice as they see fit, but that is not the law.” She said scornfully. “But if doing so is what it takes to rise up, I’ll play along for now.” She whispered as if letting him in on a secret.

He struggled to keep his face blank. “You play a dangerous game,” He said. “Motherfucking bold of you, lawsis.”

“Ah, but that’s why I know you’ll never tell.” She said silkily, edging away. “I can smell secrets on you, young prince.”

Did his eyes widen? Gamzee couldn’t tell, but she smiled like he’d confirmed her hunch. It was unsettling. Did secrets have a scent? Would they smell of guilt and starlight shining like blood?

“Who do you think will be the one pulling the strings on those secrets?” she asked. “Keep mine and I won’t be forced to find out yours.” She smiled innocently, like she wasn’t committing treason by threatening him.

It was extremely refreshing. “Well played,” Gamzee relented, nodding to her in acknowledgement. “The legislacerators made a good decision with accepting you.” She nodded, not the least bit modest.

“Well, I had quite the portfolio.” She said. “But answer me this; why are you here, prince Makara?”

Gamzee shrugged lazily, rawboned and lax. He spoke with a drawl. “This was deemed important because these teens were the ones who would become the next generation of high priests and lawmakers. The Thirteen judged it vital that I get to know them a little before ascension.”

“And what do you think of that?” she asked.

“It’s mostly bullshit,” he shrugged. “But I roll with it.”

“Yes,” Terezi smiled a sharp smile. “I bet you do. I’d like to hear more.” she said. “I can tell there’s a story behind this but I think our time is up.” She said, cutting her eyes over to the rest of the nobility and highborn. “They don’t like me hogging you.”

Gamze sighed, knowing she was right. He could feel their stares boring into the pair of them.

“Want one of my secrets?” She whispered, leaning in. He could smell the salt of her skin over the perfumed air. “I didn’t want to come here tonight. I thought the whole event was nothing but highborn bullshit, which is exactly what it turned out to be, but,” she held up a finger, “I’m glad I did.”

The Makara left her with some advice. “Don’t let anyone else know your thoughts.” He whispered. “They won’t be as accepting as me, the bloodthirsty lot.” He said playfully.

She bowed, this time for real. “Thanks for that bit of common sense sir. But I think I can manage myself.” Gamzee didn’t doubt it. If she was a legislacerator she already had blood on her hands. She drifted away, trailing his interest with her as she went.

Korzen reappeared, clearing his throat loudly. “Prince,” he said, “I have several others to introduce you too, if you will.”

“Alright brother.” Gamzee said, turning back to him. “But keep an eye on that one.” He said. “I can tell she’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants.”

Korzen tittered. “She is not a real person of consequence.” He said disdainfully. “She doesn’t even have a family name.”

Sudden anger chocked him for a moment. “Motherfucker, family name’s is shit compared to real bloodthirst.” Gamzee warned. Korzen paused in surprise, then bowed dutifully. 

“Yes, your prince.” He said, not looking directly at him. “As you wish.” He drifted off, back into the crowd. There was a new bounce in his step now. He was glad to have provoked his prince to anger.

Gamzee took control of the event after that, dismissing all of the high priests and leaving just the teens with him. He was hoping that without supervision they would drop the act and loosen up.

It did go better after that. He was able to speak with many and learned names and faces and powerful fathers. The archer boy from before was the son of a high priest. Gamzee wasn’t sure how he hadn’t met him before. The prince saw his father every day.

He spoke with Terezi several more times. She was extremely quick witted and cunning, the perfect young highborn.

But that was the problem. She wasn’t highborn. She was mid-class. If her family had a powerful name she’d be the star of tonight instead of what’s her face in the blue silk gown.

Stupid politics.

Gamzee was relieved when the night was over and the guests dismissed. It took a lot to stress him out, but the strain of the party was beginning to wear on the young prince and he was glad to retire for the night. He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter but after this things will be on track and the stpry can begin.
> 
> Bonus if you can spot the other character I introduced here besides just Terezi.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the tags, violence is inbound

Chapter Five

“I want to go for a walk.” His words had the expected reaction from the assembled priests, subjugglators, and various religious tutors.

Talk at the table crashed to a halt. Sunlight filtered in through the high windows and scattered clear light across the silverware. A crystal glass caught the light and sparkled as a servant cleared it away.

“In the city?” His scriptures tutor asked, the brand of the Messiahs that was burnt into his forehead crinkled as his thin eyebrows rose.

“In the city.” Gamzee clarified, pushing buttered toast around his plate as he spoke. His hands wouldn’t lie still. He jangled with anticipation. 

“Very well.” Korzen drawled, pushing a scrap of parchment away and reaching for a new one. “The proper arrangements can be made and-”

“No,” Gamzee said patiently, expecting his response. “I don’t want any arrangements,” he said, straightening up. “I will choose who accompanies me.”

Their eyes widened. Several high priests looked more than disgruntled, but most were pleased.

“It is good to see you taking charge like this, your Prince.” A soldier said. “You are growing into an excellent leader.”

Gamzee knew of several who would disagree but held his tongue, tapping claws against the table.

“I want to leave right now,” he said, rising up out of his seat. Breakfast sat cooling and uneaten before him on the table. Impatience and excitement battled for dominance inside of his chest.

“May I ask the reason for this sudden change?” Korzen questioned. He still hadn’t moved from his seat. 

“I can tell you every street and road beyond the walls, but I haven’t peeped them for myself,” Gamzee protested. “During the party I realized that I knew nothing of the actual citizens. Won’t it be a good thing for the city to see me taking an interest in them? I still feel like there’s so much I don’t know.”

The Makara hadn’t been this honest with his mentors since he’d begun lying to them about Karkat, but now he had a reason to be. Every time he’d snuck out had been at night. He wanted to know the city streets lit by daylight and filled with normal people doing normal things.

There was no danger of him running into Karkat. His moirail rarely moved about while the sun was up. Far too risky. And he’d admitted that the light hurt his eyes. Karkat being at the festival had been a chance in a million.

Several subjagglators were looking at their prince in approval. Gamzee felt proud- He’d done something right.

“Let’s go then.” He said, bouncing in his shoes. “This is what we’re going to do…”

A half hour later exactly six people accompanied Gamzee as he took his first steps on his own feet openly outside of the palace. Korzen was there, so was his lead tutor and four subjugglator soldiers. The subjugglators were for protection and Korzen had been unmovable about having them along. “It fits with your image,” he said, “What prince is without a guard?”

Not that it mattered. Subjugglators were all the same with their red and white painted faces and weapons. Unwaveringly loyal to the Makara and unspeakably vicious. He’d grown up surrounded by the ever-changing faces of the guardsmen.

The sun was bright. Fast moving clouds cut shadowed patches along the ground as the wind moved them swiftly along overhead. Someone nearby was cooking meat and its smoky smell permeated the air. He had no definite plan, so he headed towards the market place. Surely there would be people there.

Heads turned everywhere he went. Civilians, mid-class market owners and peasants alike, all watched him with mixed expressions of awe and fear. Gamzee didn’t like seeing the fear there. It made him guilty for things he hadn’t done.

The Makara was a wolf moving among the sheep. Everyone knew. Gamzee was the Makara, and that meant death.

He’d learned to live with it. A pen of chickens went crazy as he passed, causing a disturbance. Several pilgrims that had been in town soon flocked to him, and before long quite a crowd had formed. He gritted his fangs. All he wanted to do was walk around and maybe interact with some of the populace. To not hide behind thick castle walls. To be seen and accepted. 

He looked around at the bustling market place with wide, curious eyes. It was loud and colorful and full of a life that dimmed as word of his presence spread. Shoppers disappeared. Children playing in the streets ducked down alleys and vanished like smoke in the wind. Talk stopped completely and was replaced by hissed whispers and pointing fingers.

Gamzee’s confidence evaporated. The daylight contracted around him in a suffocating squeeze. What had he been thinking? He was not meant for this life, for these streets. Like a poppy in the rye, he stood out like a bloodstain in his simple jacket and trousers. With his newfound hesitance came anger.

The Makara’s fists clenched until claws pierced skin. It was only when he felt the prick of pain that he realized what he was doing. He was suddenly aware of exactly how any people were around him and his skin was crawling with tension. 

Quickly he looked for an opening. He had to get away. 

When the entourage passed the next side street, Gamzee ducked and turned down it behind the subjugglator’s backs. He didn’t slow down when a surprised shout followed after him. He let himself fall into a hunter’s pace, his long-limbed frame terrifyingly quick and coordinated as he dodged and wove through the crowd and didn’t stop until he’d put a dozen streets between him and the market. There was a shriek as he darted by an older lady carrying a case of water. The case fell to the cobbled ground as she caught a glimpse of his horned head. Guilt crushed at him deeper, but rage made the tips of his ears burn blood-hot.

It shouldn’t be this hard. All he had wanted was to act like he was normal for once.

He wanted Karkat at his side so much it hurt, but he wasn’t stupid. His throat was burning and it drove him to run faster, to run until he didn’t know where he was.

A clock tower loomed overhead, it’s sharply steeped roof thrust like a spear at the sun. He had the strange urge to climb it, to see the entire city spread before him like an anthill overturned and scurrying. All of Prospit was his. He wanted it rub it into his skin until it chased away the misplaced anger pulsing through his veins. 

He loped towards the clock tower, his steps quick and careful. 

If people ran, they ran from him. So he noticed the only person all day who ran at him.

They weren’t looking where they were going, focused on something behind them. It was a younger man, eyes wide and wild with a knife in his hand.

Instinctively Gamzee knew this was no assassination attempt. The guy didn’t even know he was there, still blindly casting frantic glances over his shoulder as the blade waved through the air.

Someone screamed, from him, from the guy with the knife, who knows? Gamzee felt no danger, and attempted to simply sidestep the guy as he ran past. This wasn’t his business and with rage peeping all up and thick he’d rather stay uninvolved. The guy’s elbow knocked against the prince’s clothed ribs and he went sprawling onto the cobblestones in a tangle.

Gamzee was utterly surprised. What was going on? Should he help the guy up? Should he pounce on his fallen body and mangle him beyond recognition?

Wait that the fuck?

He shook his head, hard, to clear the violent thought. He felt dazed and his concentration scattered.

The guy turned and flung a curse at him, then froze as the blood drained from his pasty face as he saw exactly who it was he’d had the shit rotten luck to run into.

The stranger stuttered, still holding his short knife in a white-knuckled grip. Blood dripped from where he’d bashed his head against the road.

“Stay where you are!” A hard voice yelled as someone pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered around them. A girl with short black hair and a flowing red cape efficiently maneuvered to the front of the mob, wielding a strange cane in one hand that she occasionally drubbed a civilian with to hasten them from her path.

It was Terezi, the legislacerator from last night. Not an ounce of surprise showed on her face.

She smiled a shark-toothed smile, dressed in the teal and red of her mark, the sigil of the Law at her heart. “Well, this is an unlikely pair.” 

Caught between the prince and the legislacerator, the man attempted to run, flinging his knife at what he must have perceived as the greater of the two threats. At Terezi.

Gamzee didn’t stop to think, he reflexively snatched the blade out of the air before it made it to its target. To his right, Terezi charged forward and launched her own attack with her staff. Concerned, Gamzee made to intervene but she had the man down in a matter of seconds.

She planted a foot in the man’s back, breaking apart her staff to reveal two short swords she held in each hand. “I’d stay where you are if I were you.’ She said sweetly to the guy, then looked up at the prince. “Nice catch.” She said, her chin dipping into a small bow. Gamzee still held the short knife in one hand.

“Nice catch to you too,” He answered stupidly, still confused as to what was going on. Terezi began to chain the man’s hands behind his back and the pieces fell into place. A whistle blew, heralding the arrival of the subjugglators, at last having tracked down their elusive charge. Korzen was there, looking like he’d found a spider in his shoe.

Gamzee tried not to look like a guilty child and stared boldly back at him. He had done nothing wrong, and even if he had it was not his teacher’s place to reproach the prince of the city. The crowd backed off at once, the ring widening as subjugglators and a high priest spilled into the small square.

“There you are, your Prince,” Korzen said smoothly, saving face before the onlookers. He nodded, but there was tension between his brows. “And young Terezi.” He said in surprise.

“It seems she’s caught a criminal,” Gamzee said, only aware after the words left his mouth that it would have been obvious to anyone looking.

“It was a team effort sir,” Terezi said, bowing to the high priest, her foot still pinning the man against the cobblestones.

“Well then,” the high priest nudged the man with his foot, releasing a slew of profanity and heated, maddened swearing. The caught man went on about the corruptness of the highborn, accusing and hateful. He even insulted the Makara once or twice, an act which carried a death penalty. He knew that he was caught, so why not get some things off his chest while he still had a tongue to spit them out with?

Korzen’s lips thinned at the outburst. “Has this one been judged already?” he asked stately, raising his voice to address not only the young legislacerator but the crowd as well. The subjugglators closed in, sensing blood.

“He has, your honor,” said Terezi. She could read what was coming just as well as the prince could. “All I need is my client’s price, then he can be turned over to face your justice.”

The high priest nodded. “Very well, but be quick about it girl,” he said. “This one needs to be reminded about the superiority of the highborn, and why one should never insult the Makara.”

Terezi grinned savagely, and her swords moved in a blur. One impaled the man through the back of one hand while the other slashed down at his wrist. An instant later she held up her gory trophy on the end of her sword while the man screamed and thrashed like a stuck pig.

The sound broke off with a choke as Korzen kicked him sharply in the ribs. Terezi backed off as subjugglators quickly took custody of the man, still clutching at his bare wrist. 

Terezi slid the hand off her sword and tucked it into a small bag at her hip and calmly wiped the blood off the blade with a rag and snapped the staff together again. She shot Gamzee a sly wink and vanished into the crowd before what came next could catch her up in its wicked justice.

It all happened so fast. Gamzee could smell the blood and hear heavy thuds as the subjugglators proceeded to beat the man to death in the street.

“Nasty business, that.” Korzen replied, looking with longing to where the murder was happening. The townspeople quickly cleared off, not a one surprised. They saw justice such as this every day.

“Your Prince,” Korzen said, turning to look at him again. “Do you think that- Messiah’s mirth, your eyes!”

Gamzee could taste rage on his tongue. Blood was all he could smell. “What is it?” he snapped, tearing his gaze away from the spreading pool that gathered along valleys and ran in rivers down the stones. He couldn’t stop looking at it. 

An extremely pleased look crossed his teacher’s face, mixed with wariness. 

“They’re glowing, Prince.” Korzen pointed out, a smile spreading across his painted face.

Gamzee blinked. They were?

“Ha!” Korzen crowed, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “There we go! If I knew a little excitement was all it took we’d have done this ages ago.”

Gamzee blinked again, and suddenly he felt a subtle shift that let him know his eyes had switched back to their normal brown.

“This is very good.” Korzen said, rubbing his hands together. “And so soon at that! With your meditation progressing so rapidly and now your eyes, I can guess that you should start reclaiming memories soon, Gamzee.”

His heart was thudding loudly. What had just happened? He swallowed thickly and didn’t protest as the freshly blood-splattered subjugglators led him back to the palace, the scent of blood following him the entire time as Korzen nearly burst with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this is such a slow build up. this story has been sitting in my hard drive for two years and all i can notice while posting it is how much i want to change everything because my writing style is so different that what it was. since i'm putting all of my effort into other, better fics, this one will remain as it is and i'll continue to update it regularly until the end is reached
> 
>  
> 
> i just wish i had the skill and the time to write this as it deserves to be written


	6. new beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey it's been two years but someone asked me to post the next few chapters of this fic so here they are

Gamzee’s training had advanced rapidly since that day. In his studies the young prince was rapidly exceeding all of his old scores and pleasing the entire palace. He pushed the limit on the scriptures, excelled in the bloodletting, and could call up enough rage to tint his eyes royal purple on command. But, in secret, behind the closed doors of his chambers when the moon was high, his private life was falling apart.

Karkat just thought he was being crazier than usual. “This is a risk,” he hissed while he sharpened his sickle slowly, testing the blade every few moments for a satisfactory sharpness.

A full moon shone down through a hole in the roof of Karkat’s block, through the gap left uncovered by a cotton sheet he’d thrown across the hole to keep out the rain.

“So are you,” Gamzee pointed out, lounging against the floor on his back. The moon might have been out full force, but he could smell a coming rain in the air.

Karkat snorted. “I am not a risk. I am a certainty,” he sounded proud of it, grinding the blade harder into the stone so that a spark slipped off in a small burst of light from his obsessive sharpening. 

Gamzee honked out a laugh. “I think my life is falling apart,” he admitted quietly. A moment passed.

Karkat froze and slowly put his blade down. His red eyes flashed. “Well, I can’t exactly say you’re wrong,” he shrugged, taking off his cloak. He crossed to his bed ad let it fall into a pile. With his head bare he stuck out like a sheep, all pale flesh and white hair that fell in coils across his scalp. Gloves ran from his fingertips up to the elbow, to keep him covered, keep him hidden. “What is it in particular?” Karkat asked gently. Without his cloak’s billowy folds he was surprisingly compact, if still ribby-thin. He slipped his sickle through his belt loop.

“It’s like I’m living as two different people,” Gamzee said, struggling to explain how his life had fractured, how the two splintered bones were rubbing painfully against one another. How could he put that feeling into words? “There’s the me during the day at the palace,” he said, struggling to explain, “And another me at night with you. I don’t know which one’s true no more. Everything else is like a dream, like different parts of me are asleep when others are awake.”

Karkat let out a breath. “That sounds difficult,” he admitted. The bed creaked as he settled onto it.

Gamzee hooked his hands under his head and laced his fingers together, elbows out. The floor was hard against his spine. “I think I’m turning into a monster.” 

The admittance came from a small corner of his soul he never gave voice to. It was pathetic- he was pathetic. Some great Makara he was.

“Gamzee, you have horns, claws, and fangs,” Karkat explained patiently. “Your point is?”

“Not a monster in how I look. I know that part already!” Gamzee snapped. Karkat frowned, sensing how torn up the prince was. “I’m talking about in here.” Gamzee placed one clawed hand over his heart, his eyes wide. “I can feel it growing stronger inside me every day. The anger. The violence. I don’t want to be like that, be that type of person, you know, but everyone expects me to be and I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.”

Karkat considered him carefully. “You’re not going to turn into a monster,” he said.

He didn’t get it. Gamzee had to show him. He narrowed his eyes, focusing until he felt them burn a violent shade of royal purple. His claws squealed against the wooden floor, gouging out deep gashes.  
“Did you know?” He asked, hoarse, raising his gaze to let the purple burn its way through the darkness of the room. “Other Makara’s had moirails, but every single one of them ended up murdering the other, ended up _monster_. There’s never been a happy ending to this story.”

Karkat would have paled if his skin hadn’t already been white as paper, but he did slowly nod as if putting pieces together. Then, he got mad, mad like only Karkat could manage to be, all righteous and honest with it, drawn up tight and burning hot. “If you think for one fucking second that I give a single flying shit about that then your mind’s more rotted by those high priests than I originally imagined.” His tone was harsh and angry, but Karkat was always harsh and angry, filled with a different type of anger than the prince’s. His red eyes met purple haze with a snap. “When did your eyes first change?”

Gamzee looked away in shame. “When I smelled the blood of a man murdered right in front of me.” His eyes flared even brighter at the memory.

Karkat… rolled his eyes. He looked shockingly exasperated and the disconnect between the two emotions made the purple fade from his eyes.

“Have you been… experiencing the compulsive urge to murder anything lately?” Karkat asked.

“No, not really,” Gamzee said. “No more than normal I figure.”

“Any feelings of homicidal rage?”

“Only every day.”

Just being with Karkat was making him feel much more balanced. He let the counterpoint of his moirail’s presence draw him back from the darkness that seethed its way through his mind. He let out a deep breath.

“What about the impulsive desire to see other’s insides?”

_Yes_ , his rage whispered, _YES._ “Gross.” Gamzee said, wrinkling up his nose.

“What about-”

“Enough, Karkat,” Gamzee waved away the interrogation. “I get your point. Sorry for freaking the fuck out on you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Karkat said quietly. “It’s my job to help you not flip the fuck out. Fuck Gamzee, I deal with an entire city’s bullshit on a daily basis. I think I can handle your bullshit.”

Gamzee smiled, nodding. His head felt clearer than it had in days. Karkat had reached in and snatched away the fog. He brought clarity and focus to Gamzee’s troubled mind. He fell silent as the night wore on.  
Was this okay? This silent waiting, no words between them, all the wickedness of Gamzee’s blood uneasy and struggling with the cursed near enough that he could see the gleaming of those red eyes from anywhere in the small room?

“Why do you think this happened?” Gamzee asked suddenly. “Us?”

Karkat gnawed at the edge of one thumbnail in distraction. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wasn’t even supposed to be in the crowd that day. But then I saw you and it felt like everything fell apart all at once and I couldn’t breathe.”

“For me,” Gamzee said. “It was like I knew you from somewhere. My soul knew you. It called out at recognition and triumph at the sight. I just knew, somehow, that you were my twin soul.” He remembered the sound of the glory bells ringing, how everything had gone still and silent at his first sight of Karkat.

Karkat snorted. “So you sent subjugglators after me?”

“I ain’t know you were cursed then,” Gamzee apologized.

“About that,” Karkat said. “You do know how fucked up this is right? We’re probably the single most fucked up moirail pair in existence.”

“Motherfucking miracles,” the prince said. He wasn’t much interested in thinking beyond that fact. He didn’t want to think about the future. He wanted to stay in this moment and believe that nothing bad was looming on the horizon.

“No, shithead,” Karkat said, “this is bad, remember? You’re the prince and everything in the entire world wants me dead.” He started sharpening his sickle again, just to give his calloused hands something to do. “For me,” he said. “Seeing you up on your throne was like death. It choked me. I knew then that I was fucked beyond any degree of fucked I’d previously believed myself to be.”

“You still think that?” Gamzee asked, distressed.

“I don’t know,” Karkat said. “I just don’t know.”

Gamzee didn’t reply. This whole situation was danger on a high wire. One misstep- and they’d both go down. If it came down to it, Gamzee didn’t think the 13 would overlook his moirail’s existence, not even if he ordered it. About that the law was absolute- cursed must die. No exceptions.

“Me neither,” Gamzee answered.

“So we keep doing this?” Karkat asked, “Sneaking around?”

“It works,” Gamzee said, shrugging. 

Karkat didn’t reply. He looked away. The thousand unsaid things burned between them, but they had a system that worked. For now.  
…

 

Gamzee left for the palace soon after, racing against the rising sun. He’d been right. Rain drizzled down in a mist, not falling exactly but still managing to soak everything. He made it into bed with no troubles and stashed his damp cloak under the bed to dry before he fell into a short nap before his morning classes.

Gamzee dreamt vividly, in a drifting and wakeful sort of way, and when he woke immediately ran to find Korzen. His heart was pacing in his chest.

The Makara found him in the chapel, preparing for the morning ritual. A lamb tugged at the rope around its neck in the corner. At the alter lay a bright knife, left lying in wait. A few worshippers wandered about until he snarled at them to leave.

Korzen looked up at his charge in shock, his eyebrows drawn together because of the hiss. “Your Prince,” he began, “Scaring away worshippers is fine and makes a good joke, but-”  
“I had a dream,” Gamzee said, not sure how to go on. He clung to the memory of his sleeping self, fighting back a smile. Gamzee beamed at him.

The high priest’s mouth fell open as a deep satisfaction filled him. Take that, Korzen. One point for the Prince. The 13 could kiss his ass.

It took Korzen a moment to recover his tongue. “A dream?” he asked, setting down the knife. “What kind of dream Gamzee?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “What are memories like?”

Korzen’s hands were shaking, just barely but enough for him to notice. Was it from excitement? “Do you think it was a memory?” He asked at once.

“Yes, maybe,” Gamzee decided. “Kurloz, did he like music?”

Korxis sighed. “Of all the things to remember, of course it be that detail.” He said, straightening his shoulders. “You’ve never been one to make things easy, Gamzee.”

Curiosity colored his painted cheeks as Gamzee patiently waited for Korzen to explain.

The high priest reached out and returned to readying a series of back candles for the ceremony. “Kurloz, for all of his secrets, did enjoy listening to music. Often he blessed us with his presence during lesser ceremonies just to hear the screams.” Korzen chuckled at the memory. “That was his music.”

Gamzee could remember that, standing at the alter, leading the evening massacre. He even remembered Korzen’s face- younger, gaunter, more hard boned and raw with the power of a young priest just growing into the whimsy of the church. He remembered humming along to the glorious screams, dripping pain and bloodshed over the clergy as they thrashed and swayed below.

These memories were not his own. He’d yet to lead a worship service and the hot wetness of blood under his claws from the holy rites didn’t belong to him yet. The memories felt faded, like a pane of glass was separating the two of them that he could look into and see what was on the other side. He felt larger than he had yesterday, like he’d grown another inch in height.

He told Korzen everything he could recall. He lingered over the details, over the faces of people he could remember and things he’d seen Kurloz do. Messiah’s blessed, he’d never seen Korzen look so… so motherfucking proud before.

At the realization he fell silent, his face burning with heat and excitement. He stood behind the alter and felt the walls of the chapel shift around him until he was in the dream of standing here before in a past lifetime, and he knew his eyes were burning with purple and that the rage was pouring off him in waves.

Korzen looked up at Gamzee like he’d seen their gods peeping up through the fire in the Makara’s purple eyes.

The high priest reached for the sacrificial knife and drew it across the meat of his palm. Gamzee held still as Korzen poured the pooling blood over his face and hair. He felt it splatter over his horns and wet his lips as the priest turned his head upwards to receive it.

Korzen held Gamzee’s face between his hands like it was a precious thing as he wiped red across his cheeks. “You,” Korzen breathed, “Are going to save us all. You will be all we have prayed for and more than we ever hoped to live to bleed and die for. Gamzee, I pledge my life and my blood in thy name until every drop runs out. Hail, Prince Makara Gamzee, Prince of all Prospit and all of his holy church. May the skies rain blood in your name and the Dark Carnival never cease.”

Gamzee let the blood wash him clean. He felt the eyes of the Messiah’s on him as light streamed in through the colored windows, terrible and great all at once, and for the first time he felt like he could breathe through the weight off his past and his future. He felt like he didn’t need to act like the Makara; he was the Makara, he was every Makara that had ever lived, stretching back in an endless wave of bloodshed and jokes and subjugglators until the world was made new from the ashes of the old that he ground like bone splinters beneath his feet.

For the first time, Gamzee felt like the god he was supposed to be.

“Stay,” Korzen pleaded, pressed the blade of the athame into his waiting hand. “Lead us in prayer. Show your faithful true worship.”

Gamzee wrapped his long fingers around the hilt like a knife’s what his hand was made for holding.

“It’s time for the morning rites,” Korzen said, “Lead us. You know all the words, and may Kurloz guide you if you falter.”

Gamzee held the knife up to his chest as the lamb screamed in the corner. “I won’t motherfucking falter,” he swore. He felt awake as worshippers and priests and subjugglators poured into the chapel and stared up at him from the killing floor, his facepaint smeared and streaked with blood that matted in his wild hair as his eyes burned.

“Brothers,” he cried out, standing where he was meant to stand, where countless other feet had stood before him to say these same words. “Sisters.”

He saw each of the 13 look up at him with something like hope etched across their faces as they eagerly pressed forward to hear their god preach.

“Another fucking day has come,” he said, “And welcome to the Dark Carnival....”

He let the preaching take him away. He let his soul ascend upwards and he rapped out the sacred words as the lamb was brought forward to punctuate his sermon with it’s screams and blood. He watched as his preaching lit their eyes on fire, until froth formed at their lips as he whipped them into a frenzy. 

_“The Dark Carnival will take your soul away and give you mythical adventure in a magical way. Fuck how you lookin', paint it up like a clown, Faygo flyin' everywhere, fuck makin' sense. Run with everybody or walk with our crew and stand on the moon, face the world and say fuck you. I ain't sitting out playing that shit so put me in the ground where my juggalos is.  
Come take a journey through heaven and hell, see what we have to come, and share the story I tell. Walk hand-in-hand with the devil and God, fuck anybody tryin' to change our ways. I strangle unbelievers with their own heartstrings- Fuck anybody who ain't down with the clown! From now until millennium's after I'm dead in the ground… I pray for the Carnival. I love for the Carnival. I die for the Carnival.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's three chapter's i'm updating so... yeah. God this is suck old work now, but one time I loved this story. it deserved more from me


	7. in the storm

It felt like waking up if waking up hurt like a mother _fucker_. It was more sideways than that. Like squinting at a shadow until he could see what it was only to have it twist into a new shape so that he had to start all over again.

Gamzee felt even more polarized than he had before his spiritual awakening. He spend his days with the Thirteen in preparation for his ascension. He wrote out entire holy texts from memory until his hand cramped. He practiced rapping scriptures until he could go with the flow of the words without a fumble, scarcely even needing to think about it. He breathed, bathed, and sweated out the Church of the Mirthful Messiah’s until his soul was raw and needy but filled with glory and mirth.

He spent his nights with Karkat, learning a different kind of scripture as his cloaked moirail let him tag along. At night, he had to forget what he did and thought during the day. The two Gamzees might as well be different people altogether, because he was sure Korzen would never recognize him slinking through the streets of Prospit with a cursed at his side, unseen by all but a select few. The two instances of himself didn’t mix- they couldn’t mix. Just the idea alone was when things began to get clouded and complicated until his head hurt with it. He had drawn very clear lines between the two people he had to be, and he clung to them. 

“You can’t tell anyone about me,” Karkat said, crouching between the eves of a crumbling roof. “And I can’t tell anyone about you.”

“Who would you tell?” Gamzee asked curiously. He’d only ever seen Karkat alone.

“I have friends, you know,” Karkat rolled his eyes and drew his hood closer around his neck. “There’s a lot of illegals like me running around underneath the Church’s nose. How did you think I’d managed to make it this long without some subjugglator fuck pulling my heart out through my eye sockets?”

Gamzee scratched at his scalp with his claws and shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about that,” he said.

“You’re impossible,” Karkat told him. “Now keep quiet and follow me.”

He matched his steps to Karkat’s, easily keeping pace with his longer legs. Karkat was surprisingly good at stealth for one untrained in the art. He moved with purpose, his hands half-curled at his sides and always ready for a fight.

Gamzee followed silently until his curiosity got the better of him. “Where are we going?” he whispered.

Karkat hushed him hurriedly as his ears caught the sound of feet. A pack of street kids dressed in rags slunk by, fevered and hungry as the wolves that howled from the fields that bordered Prospit. In the darkness only their eyes and the steel pipes they carried glittered as they moved along.

“I want to show you something,” Karkat said once the coast was clear. He leveled a stern look at the prince. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Gamzee dipped his horns in a small nod. “As you say br- Karkat.” He caught himself quickly and Karkat moved on without a word.

They left the darker parts of the city where Karkat normally did his business. The market district was mostly business with crammed second floor housing that leaned into neighboring buildings across narrow streets to block out the sky. It was nicer in this part of town, more light and clean and open. More populated even at this late hour.

The square of soot stuck out like a sore thumb from where it squatted malevolently at the cobbled corner. The bare blackened beams of what little was left of the building’s foundation were all that remained. The fire must have been old. Gamzee couldn’t smell any lingering smoke and the charcoal had begun to break apart in past rains. It was still fresh enough that no weeds grew in the charred ground.

“What happened here?” Gamzee asked as Karkat peered at the ruin. His hood hid his face but his hands were in tight fists.

“Did you hear anything about the Nitram family at the palace?” Karkat asked.

His skin crawled at the name, but it didn’t sound familiar. “Who?”

“They lived here not too long ago,” Karkat said, motioning to the burned out square. “The Church called for their extermination after Roofio got drunk up at the Peregrine Mendicant one night and mouthed off to some shithole of a lesser priest. I knew his mother well. She was a solid woman, well educated. She was originally some highborn’s daughter, but she left that life to marry Mr. Nitram and every week she held an open schoolfeeding session to teach people how to read and write and she never asked for anything in return. They were good people.”

Gamzee already had a feeling of where this was leading, but it still didn’t dull the pain of the blow as Karkat went on. “They waited until her class was full, then the subjugglators locked everyone inside and burnt their home to the ground. Sixteen people were killed.” Karkat swallowed thickly, his voice hoarse. “They caught Roofio earlier that night. No one knows what they did with him, but they left his head behind on a pike as they burnt his family and a handful of other innocent people alive just for the hell of it.”

Gamzee stared at the eerily silent square where the home had once stood and could imagine the screams, the honking laughter of the subjugglators as they poured out Faygo over the ashes.

“Can you tell me why?” Karkat asked softly.

Gamzee could quote the exact scriptures, through pain may you become clean and join the Dark Carnival, through suffering may your sins be forgiven only under the bloodletting. The Law was clear-Kill anyone who couldn’t get down with the clown. Insulting a priest was inviting their retribution. Holding an illegal schoolfeed for midclass and peasantborn was overreaching the goodwill of the Church and its Law. Scorching the flesh from their living bones was a holy duty to ensure the appeasement of the Messiah’s and so allow their filthy souls to be cleansed from sin to join the Carnival, to make them believers through death. He knew this.

But standing there with soot in his nose and Karkat’s grief-choked voice in his ear, he forgot all of the laws and scriptures he’d ever been taught. His tongue lay in his mouth like a dead slug.

“Why?” Karkat asked again, louder now. “Gamzee.”

“You know why,” he finally managed to choke out.

Karkat nodded sharply, accepting it. “Shit like this happens every single fucking day,” he said, sweeping his arm at the square. “This shit’s so commonplace I don’t even think they bothered to record it at the castle. Gamzee, what do you even do up there?”

Gamzee shook his head in denial. He knew what Karkat was hinting at. “Don’t,” he said. “I’ve never hurt a person.” But there was this feeling gnawing at his belly, twisting and nauseating. Guilt, that’s what it was called.

“You’ve never hurt a person,” Karkat repeated. “I believe that Gamzee, I do, but you know your church does. You know they hurt people all the time.”

Gamzee felt his claws dig into his palms. “They do.”

“Gamzee,” Karkat said, “Do you ever think about what happens next?”

The question threw him. “What do you mean?” Gamzee asked, and he wanted to run, to put as many streets between him and the burnt lot as he could.

Karkat sighed and there was anger there. “Look,” he said, “You know the Nitrams didn’t deserve this shit that happened to them. They didn’t deserve to die no matter what your precious religious law says. Fuck the law and fuck the church. Fuck anything that says this is okay, because it’s fucking not and you know it.”

“Don’t say that,” Gamzee said desperately, “You can’t say shit like that.” The words sent his head spinning, chanting treason. _Blasphemy_. **Heresy**. The words bored into his skull and sat between his ears where he couldn’t rip them out.

“Why not?” Karkat challenged. “Are they going to kill me for it, kill me like they killed Roofio? News flash, Gamzee, I’m dead no matter what the fuck I say. I’m dead just because I fucking exist, remember?”

Gamzee’s eyes were wide. “It’s treason to say shit like that,” he said. “You can’t be dissing the Church.”

“Ha!” Karkat laughed, “Everyone does. Everyone hates the church and everything about them, but anyone brave enough to speak out gets silenced and even get their families killed just so the subjugglators can save face.”

“No,” Gamzee said, desperate. He wasn’t even sure what he was denying. He knew it was true, he knew what the church did with nonbelievers. 

“Only highborn and clergy members actually like the church, because it benefits them to act nice,” Karkat’s words were scolding. “Everyone else? We’re being subjugglated to fucking death and left to rot and die in the streets. Look around you, Gamzee! Holy fuck, did you think we liked living like this?”

“I didn’t think-” he began, trying to defend himself but finding no words to say. What could he say?

“Exactly,” Karkat sighed, and his voice was softer now, his rage burnt low and weary. “You’ve never thought anything that the church hasn’t told you to. So I’m asking you now, just you. Gamzee, what do you think about the Nitram family? If you were in charge of what happened to them, what would you have done?”

What would he have done? Korzen wasn’t here to tell him the correct answer. Gamzee had to think his thoughts alone in a mind much too wide to contain itself, so wide everything had to be squashed down before the endlessness of the suffocating empty space could crush him. “N-Not this,” he whispered. “Not killed them.”

“Why?”

Gamzee considered his answer. Not killed them. The answer had tasted like the truth. If he could reach back in time and wipe away the stain left behind in blood and ash he would. Against the law and against the church, he would have let them live.

“That’s all the answer I have for now,” Gamzee said, and he sounded just as tired as Karkat sounded.

"Mercy,” Karkat looked closely at him and nodded when Gamzee latched onto the word and agreed. _Mercy_. “It’s a start,” he said.

“A start to what?” The prince asked. He almost didn’t want to hear the answer, didn’t want another thing to add to the ever-growing list of why he should kill Karkat.

“To whatever happens next,” Karkat answered.  
…

 

They walked in silence back to familiar streets. Karkat didn’t say anything and left Gamzee to wade through the heaving seas of his own head alone.

Sixteen people. He knew they had died slow and painful, and a month ago it wouldn’t have burrowed under his skin like this to itch and fester. A month ago he would have shrugged. Blood to blood, brothers. May you writhe freely in the dark pits of the Carnival.

Now he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t known any of the motherfuckers personally, but his moirail did. He tried to imagine the scene and his mind flinched away from it. His mouth tasted bitter.

“I’m thinking,” Gamzee said slowly. Karkat paused.

“Of what?”

“The future,” he answered.

“Are you?” Karkat asked, surprised and saddened. 

They stopped at the foot of Karkat’s ruined hive. The eastern horizon was beginning to show the gray of the coming morning and a rooster was crowing. Gamzee felt the pull of the palace and his studies and the reassuring comfort of the life he lived by day, but with Karkat at his side he had to forget all of that. He couldn’t afford to imagine Korzen’s face as he continued. “I’m going to be the true prince soon. One day things like that will be up to me to decide. I can _choose_ not to kill.”

Gamzee said the words like a promise. “I’ve never liked the idea of killing none. It never fit me right.” Can’t he be the Makara without killing? Could he spare innocents when no one was really innocent? Clashing religious ideologies aside, was he allowed to decide his own fate or did that right belong solely to the Church?

He wasn’t sure that was how it worked, but he had the inkling of an idea that calmed the guilt in his belly and erased the terrible image of the burned out hive. He clung to the idea. 

“You would chose mercy?” Karkat asked. His hood was still drawn up around his neck and the line of his shoulders was tense. 

“I would,” Gamzee swore. “I will.”

Karkat reached out and set one hand on his shoulder. It was the first time his moirail had ever touched him and the muscles of his arm twitched with discomfort under the warmth of his gloved hand. It wasn’t from disgust; he’d just wasn’t used to a touch not meant underhanded. “Gamzee,” he said, “Thank you.”

It was different from Korzen’s brash and overbearing pride. Karkat’s approval was a thing hard won. It was more precious than anything Gamzee had ever heard said to him before and his arm fell still. He felt like he’d run a race until his lungs were bursting, but he’d reached the end and it was worth the sweet burn of pain in his chest. This feeling was what glory was.

He reached up and set his own hand over Karkat’s and his moirail didn’t flinch away.

“Maybe there was a reason for this,” Karkat said, “Maybe we were meant to be moirails. Maybe we can fix things.”

“Fix things?” Gamzee asked.

“Make life better for everyone,” Karkat said. “Make it so that no one has to lie awake at night wondering if they’ll make it through tomorrow.”

“Mercy?” Gamzee asked. The word was new but he liked how it rang in his ears.

“Mercy,” Karkat confirmed. “If I die tomorrow or a week from now, if we never see each other again I want you to remember this,” His hand tightened on his shoulder, the fingers digging in. “Chose mercy, because you’re the only person in all of Prospit that gets the freedom to choose. Gamzee, you have power. Use it for good things.”

Gamzee bowed his horned head until his chin touched his chest. “I will,” he promised. “It’s small, but it’s a start.”

“It’s a start,” Karkat agreed, and then he vanished back inside of his hive as the sun began to rise bloody in the skies of Prospit.


	8. in remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh No now i'm adding plot

Back at the palace Gamzee had this ritual he’d go through each time he snuck back unseen into his rooms. He’d hide the cloak he wore outside the walls under his bed and draw tight the curtains over the mirror before he let them fall open.

His reflection considered him silently as he carefully began to repaint his face. The gray and white would begin to rub off in the early hours and that couldn’t stand. It was unacceptable. He took out his brushes and his paints and he stroked the design he knew by heart over his olive skin until no trace of it remained. The brushstrokes were ingrained within his fingers, years of unthinking muscle memory lent him unflinching confidence that the design would turn out alright. While he reapplied the face paint, he would fold up the night’s memories of his moirail and tuck them away in his head, just like how he hid his cloak beneath the bed.

Out of sight, out of fucking mind. In the daytime he wouldn’t even allow himself to remember Karkat’s name. In the daytime he had to be the Makara, had to be the one who knew how a knife felt in his hand as he did things entire hells worth of unspeakable to a white fleeced lamb with wooly pale hair just like his moirail’s.

But he’d learned a new word for caring, and now as he traced the white and gray around his eyes he couldn’t make himself forget the exact shade he saw in Karkat’s damned red eyes. He was breathless and twitchy with remembering. All of the lines were blurred and he was uncertain in his own skin.

He touched his horns, turned and tilted his head this way and that way to observe how they moved with him. He tapped claws against the bone and felt it down to the roots of his skull. The sun was rising through the window he’d left open reentering his chambers, and light glinted off of their stark blackness. He lowered his hand and watched himself, his face freshly repainted and his horns tall and gleaming. His embroidered coat was fit to his slim figure and complemented his boots in color.

For the first time Gamzee wasn’t sure he liked what he saw in himself. His reflection wasn’t smiling.

He crossed his room and closed the window as the honking bells of the morning’s services began to ring from the temple’s chapel where it oozed into the main castle, jutting out of the stonework like a bulbous cancerous growth, even if it were outfitted in gold and bronze.

He blinked down at the holy place from his spot above and squinted until he could make out the red tiles of the roof. The sound of the bells shook his bones and his blood was like ice.

The building didn’t look as graceful and miraculous as he’d once thought it to be, not from up here.

What else had he been blind to? What else had he not been seeing clearly?

Karkat’s words from last night ate at him. _You’ve only ever thought what they’ve told you to think_. Was that true?

Gamzee shook his head with a scowl and a snarl. The only person in his head was him and motherfucking him. But… could it be possible that Karkat had been right?

Gamzee had to find out.

Korzen was in his office. His morning classes had been revoked due to a ‘surprise session’ as Korzen had called it, so Gamzee had the full length of the morning to himself. His teacher was at his desk, two crossed and spiked maces hung on the wall behind him and he looked up when Gamzee trotted through the doorway.

“Up early, I see,” he said as he dipped a quill in ink and went back to his memo. 

“I couldn’t sleep right,” Gamzee lied, “What did you mean by ‘special session’?”  
Korzen shook the dirty quill at him like a wagging finger. “Oh no, you’ll not have the answer from me. That’s what surprises are for.” He went back to his word with an amused chuckle.

As curious as Gamzee was about the coming afternoon, this wasn’t the reason he’d sought out his teacher. “Who controls the records of holy duties as seen in Prospit?”

“We do,” Korzen answered without looking up. “The Thirteen.”

“Can I look at some of the records?”

Korzen paused in his writing and Gamzee read the words ‘execution order’ off of the top of the page upside-down. “What’s with this sudden interest?”

His teacher’s keen eyes were too sharp for Gamzee to consider lying again. “I wanted to see how many cases of heretics are seen in the city monthly.”

Korzen’s thin painted eyebrows rose. “Heretics?” He shrugged his massive shoulders and straightened his back. “We see a few cases, but not as many as when you were younger. As your power grows, so does that of the faithful.”

“I’d still like to see them for myself,” Gamzee stated firmly. Karkat had to be wrong about the church not bothering to record the annihilation of the Nitram family. The 13 recorded every subjugglation event that took place in the country all the way to the borders of Derse where the foul rival country clung to its autonomy, reduced to a crushed thin strip of coast and a scattered handful of islands. 

The high priest reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick file. Ink and ash were smeared across the cover of the file. “Here,” he said, dropping the heavy file on his desk. “This contains the past few months’ worth of anything worth clogging my desk with. You can look over them here with me if you’d like, but try not to damage them Gamzee.”

His tutor returned to his work, a worried frown between his brows as he scratched at the page with the nib.

Gamzee lifted the thick file and let himself slump to the floor with it. Loose pages fluttered free when he opened it, and it took him a moment to understand the organization employed. Executions, sacrifices, riots, bloodsport, and really funny jokes were cluttered together. He pulled a page free and scanned the spidery hand. 

‘ _On this night of the bilunar perigree, I, Gentic of the Thirteen most Underhanded, did play a joke on a midborn peasant. The unfunny motherfucker thought it chill to bake bread in the shape of church bells and drizzled cherries as a bloody glaze over them and offered them for sale. Blasphemy, yes, but when I forced him to eat of them until he rang full he did choke most miraculously on his ill-baked wares until I nearly choked as well for laughter. Messiah’s be blessed! Their blessed will was done without me lifting a hand. Blood to blood, amen.’_

Gamzee’s belly rolled with the thought and he swallowed thickly as he turned the page. 

_‘Some motherfucker looked at me weird, so I crushed in his skull and let his entrails clog the hooves of passing herdbeasts- Dealle the Coldhearted, of the most holy Thirteen.’_

Gamzee’s eyes started to glaze over as he read through the list. Korzen’s quill and the turning on the pages was the only sound in the office. Most of the entries were from lesser priests and unnamed subjugglators aplenty, and none of the cases recorded, as bad as they all were, seemed to be of any consequence.

He flipped to a new section and read- notable disturbances: solved.

The first entry listed was for the Nitram family. There was no other information listed, only a footnote to a later section that he quickly turned to, his heart pounding in his chest.

‘The Nitram family’ the entry read, ‘Midborn in class. Judged guilty by way of guilty until proved guiltier. Crimes- Running an illegal schoolfeed for midborn and peasantborn alike. Harboring a dangerous malcontent who publically and vocally dismissed the rule of the church. Had been the source of several past disputes, all centering on the eldest son who nursed a grudge against the church after an incident with a subjugglator that left his younger sibling a worthless cripple. A total extermination order was given and their home was put to torch with all dissenters inside. May through their torment they writhe freely in the pits of the Dark Carnival’.

The Nitram family was the only case listed under that heading. The flipside had a section labeled Notable disturbances: unsolved.

With curiosity mingling with the dread he felt, Gamzee poured over the unfinished chapter. There were only three entries.

1\. Unknown poacher strikes again. Seven chickens taken. Like before they left no sign behind save the mark of the Red Cult. The farmer was killed to keep the situation under control.  
2\. Unspecified, but rumors of a resistance are growing louder. Laughassassins have been dispatched to gather more information on the subject.  
3\. Several soldiers have vanished in the poorer districts of Prospit. A rank of subjugglators sent to investigate also disappeared. Their remains were found days later once the crows got to them. The bodies show they died fighting bravely, but not a single body of the foe was recovered and the attackers remain unknown.

Gamze ran his claws over the page and bit his lip. Why hadn’t he heard of any of this? Missing soldiers?

“Korzen,” he asked, rising to his feet. “What does this section mean?” He slid the page loose and handed it to his teacher.

The high priest sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Gamzee,” he said, “Running a nation is hard. Sometimes the joke’s on us and that’s just how things go.”

“Someone attacked them,” Gamzee said in confusion. “Loyal soldiers and subjugglators of the Church. Why wasn’t I told of this?”

“It’s not yet your burden to bear,” Korzen said softly. “Gamzee, I’m touched that you care, but we are handling the usurpers to the best of our abilities. Right now it was judged that your time was better put towards your studies.”

“That may be right,” Gamzee admitted. What did he know of counterintelligence? All he knew was book learning. “But even if that’s right, I deserve to be all up in the know if there’s some kind of unrighteous shit going on. Resistance? Cult?”

“There is a problem in the city,” Korzen said, raising his voice. “We have evidence of a cult, made of dissenters and heretics. Hateful nonbelievers not worthy of the whimsy it’d take to reeducate them, though reeducate we will by blood and by broken bone as the law demands. Gamzee, take no worry of this. It’s nothing we can’t handle.” The high priest set his eyes to his charge. “Sometimes,” he said, “The Messiah’s demand a steep price from us. We give them our blood and bone, our worship and our suffering, and we do so willingly. It’s our burden to bear, Gamzee, the sins of the heretics and the dissenters out there. It’s our holy duty to set them on the right path so that their souls may know peace.”

“Motherfuck,” Gamzee said solemnly, raising his hand. “Brother, the city is eased by your service.” The words came from a deep place inside of him, and his teacher bent his head.

“All thanks,” Korzen answered.

“Keep me up to date, please,” Gamzee couldn’t yet frame the command as an order, so he tacked the please on at the end. “From now on I want to be a part of the council’s decisions. I want to know the next time this foe breathes their fucking breath in my fucking city.”

True anger flavored his voice. He’d come in here intent to gain a permanent access to the council’s workings, to know what was going on out in the city so he could get the feel for ruling and he’d done that. Now there was some unknown motherfucker attacking his own? His fists clenched until he could feel the points of claws dig into the meat of his palms. The Makara was loyal to his own.

Korzen dipped his head again. “Every day I see you grow into a Makara Prospit can be proud of,” he said. “Maybe soon you can lead the charge yourself against this foe and crush them at our head.”

For once the idea of partaking in actual violence on a fellow person made a thrill of excitement run through him and his eyes flashed vivid purple.

“Good,” Korzen said, his voice swelling with pride. “Save your precious rage, prince. You’ll need it later during your classes…”  
…

 

Noon came and went. Lunch was served. The day grew old before the summons came in the hands of a page whose fingers shook as he silently handed the official summons to the prince with his eyes downcast.  
“Your Prince,” the note read, “Your presence is requested at the training area post-haste. All necessary arrangements have been made for you.” The note bore the council’s mark burned into the top of the thick parchment. 

This must be for the special session. Gamzee quickly loped down the long halls and took staircases in a single leap in his excitement. The page boy struggled to keep up and was quickly left behind. 

The arena was in the back, behind the poisons garden. The far wall was the same one that Gamzee scaled at night, and the grass was cropped short and flat. The rectangle was surrounded on three sides with spectator seats, raised so that the grassy arena lay in a pit between them. Racks held every assortment of weapon imaginable and the wall was hung with archery targets in the shape of people.

The seats were empty and the arena was cluttered with a handful of other trainees and their tutors, mostly highborn second sons given in service to the church.

Gamzee recognized one as the archer boy he’d met at the highborn party. He watched as the black-haired youth slammed arrow after arrow home in the exact center of the target, taking great care not to shatter the arrows, so careful was his rapid aim. The Makara waited until the boy had finished with the quiver and he joined in with the hollering that broke out on support of the boy. A gong rang, calling the ring to order.  
Gamzee trotted down to where he could see Korzen waiting, gleeful and curious as he passed the rows of weapons. 

“Ah, Prince, there you are,” Korzen said, waving the archer boy over. “Today you’ll start with advanced weapon’s training.”

Gamzee’s toes nearly curled for joy. Weapons training! The thing he’d been waiting all his life for!

“It’s normal to have the Makara wait until they begin to reclaim memories on their own,” Korzen told him as the boy walked over. “As weapons in the hand stir holy feelings high.”

The archer boy kept his eyes dead ahead and his face blank as Korzen introduced him. “Your Prince, this is Equius, son of one of the Thirteen and young master archer. He’ll give you some basics in archery while I ready the rest of the lesson for you.”  
“Equius,” Gamzee nodded at him, dipping his long horns. “I saw you earlier slamming bulls-eyes like you were culling non-believers.”

“I’ve trained in the bow for years,” Equius answered, his voice plain and his eyes still refusing to look directly at the Makara.

“Very well,” Korzen said, clapping. “As Equius will one day join the new council of Thirteen most Underhanded, it’s fitting that you two get to know each other. I’ll leave him to teach you then, if you’ll excuse me,” Korzen said, eyeing a spiked mace with vicious intent as he walked away. 

Gamzee stared curiously at Equius. The youth was his age, large and muscular in frame, with his long dark hair tied in a knot at the nape of his neck. Sweat ran down his face as he dapped at his forehead.

“Have you ever shot before?” Equius asked, his voice subdued. 

“Nope,” Gamzee said, excited and bouncing in place. “Can you show me?”

Equius handed Gamzee the massive bow he’d been using. “This longbow should be suitable for you,” he said. “Its drawweight is too much for most men to hold, but I’m sure you’ll bear it with ease.”  
Gamzee held the massive weapon carefully, afraid that he’d snap it like a matchstick in his hands. Equius drew a white feathered arrow and showed him how to nock it in place, odd color out so the fletching wouldn’t slap the string on the way past.

“Now slowly draw back on the string,” Equius instructed, backing away.

Gamzee drew back the bow smoothly, the muscles in his arm, shoulder, and back reacting to the familiar-not familiar pull. This was a memory thing. Gamzee already knew this, he knew how a bow felt in his hands, he knew the shock that would snap back up his arm once he released the arrow.

Gamzee was aware that Equius was still talking, but he’d stopped paying attention. The straw, man-shaped target was calling to him and he imagined blood seeping out from between the arrows already stuck in it’s chest.

The shock of the release snapped up his arm, the bow’s twang the loudest sound he’d ever heard as the arrow hissed through the air to slam home directly over the target’s straw heart. A perfect shot. 

Equius stood agape, mouth open like a fish before he closed his jaw and nodded, still sweating profusely. “Excellent shot, your Grace,” he stuttered, bowing. 

Out of nowhere, Korzen appeared at his side, his eyes gleaming. “Perfect, perfect!” He cried clapping Gamzee around the shoulders. “You’re a natural, Prince.”

Gamzee quickly drew nocked, and fired three more arrows. Two too the target through its painted eyes, and the third split his first arrow down the shaft with a resounding crack. The watching crowd cheered. 

Overjoyed, Gamzee clutched the bow to his chest, grinning ear to ear. At last, something he was good at that was valued in the eyes of the Church. “What else is there?” He asked, his entire body humming with the recovered memory of a thousand volleys. 

“Careful, Makara” Korzen cautioned, sensing his heightened energy. “Recovering memories too fast can be traumatic. We can move onto the next weapons’ set once you’ve meditated for a while.”

Gamzee tried not to pout. The racks of ready-to-go weaponry drew his gaze like moths to a flame. His hands itched to hold them, to feel their weight in his fingers. He shrugged, his shoulders loose-jointed as he walked to a quieter patch of grass to meditate. 

When he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, the first thing he left was Karkat’s easy calmness radiating down in his his core from their bond. It was amazing that Gamzee could still feel his moirail with the distance between them, but he didn’t complain as he let Karkat’s peaceful feelings wash through his core until he felt grounded and steady.

Gamzee focused on the memory of the bow, vying for details as he pulled free thoughts of sighting down bows that didn’t belong to him. Most of the arrows he remembered were aimed at other people but it was easy for Gamzee to ignore their faces. He focused on the mechanics of it, the draw and pull, snap and release until he felt the reclaimed knowledge become _his_. 

When Gamzee opened his eyes next, he was ready and eager for the next learning of how to handle the bloodletting tools of his religion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when I'll pick this story up again, but maybe i'll get back to it soon. I still have the whole world planned out how i want it to go, is just... writing it now will be so different from what i've done so far. It's been two years. my writing style had improved since then, so it won;t match the origional tone i wrote this in.
> 
> The good thing is that this story passes quickly, writing-wise. its good for calming me down. i enjoy a good word vomit in the morning to get the other ideas flowing

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah forgive me beginnings are hard. Writing Gamzee is also hard, especially with what a backwards situation this is. Things will pick up soon and hopefully I'll figure out what I'm doing with this freaking clown cult. 
> 
> Oh, mind the tags. I mean them.
> 
> I've got a few chapters stored up so this will update regularly. 
> 
> I'm putting so little effort in this forgive me... that will change as this goes in because I can' t write anything without letting it consume my soul.


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